Chapter Text
Kyoto, Gion (1930, Era Showa).
“Karyukai means ‘ the flower and willow world’ . Each geisha is like a flower, beautiful in her own way, and like a willow tree, gracious, flexible, and strong.”*
Small snowflakes were beginning to fall on the city of Kyoto. In the Gion district, the streets and the wooden roofs of the houses were beginning to disappear under the snow. The coldest time of the year had arrived, but perhaps also the most magical. Where the snow covered everything under its white mantle, making everything look alike. Without labels, without names. Unpretentious. Everything was the same, silent.
Kahori rested her shoulder on the wooden wall, while her head leaned to look out of the large window overlooking a small private garden. Her breath had created a small spot of vapour on the window as she waited for the room to warm up a little. The shikomi of her Okiya*, who had recently arrived at her Okiya, once again she had forgotten to turn on the wood stove to heat the room. Her room, which she shared with two other geisha, had plunged into silent cold.
Kahori lazily turned to look around the room. The oldest of the three, Kiyoko, had already gone downstairs, while Yachi was still sleeping in her warm futon. She let out a sigh, before hugging herself in her blue yukata and looking out of the window again. A crow perched on a branch of a bare cherry tree, one leg rested firmly on the branch, while the other, now just a distant memory, emerged from the animal's thick feathers like a small, broken twig.
Poor crow, its leg was missing . That was Kahori's first thought.
In response, as if the crow had heard the woman's thoughts, it ruffled its feathers, assuming the funny shape of a feathered ball. It croaked a couple of times, bent its head slightly to one side and blinked. Then, sensing that it wouldn't receive food from the human, it opened its wings and flew away.
“You may no longer have a leg, but at least you have wings to get away,” she whispered, half-closing her eyes wistfully. “And here I am, locked up in this cage.”
Kahori's world, like the world of her sisters, was cruel. None of them had chosen that way of life, yet that was the only path they could take. Kahori could still remember the day she arrived at Oikiya. She was only eight years old and was sold for a sack of rice. That was all she was worth: a handful of rice and nothing more. The moment they had set foot in that house, a noose had slowly been tied around her neck .
The days became months, and the months became years. And their debt to the Okiya increased. Sure, they had a roof over their heads, food to feed their stomachs. Sure, from poor and malnourished little girls, they had started going to school, educating themselves, learning how to dance, sing, and play the shamisen. But all this had meant giving up their freedom.
Perhaps, on second thought, that crow was much luckier than she and her sisters.
Kahori sighed again. The voice of her okasan* echoed downstairs, as a figure hidden by an umbrella made its way into the private garden. Although his face was obscured, his clothes were recognisable even from a distance: he wore a double-breasted olive-brown jacket with epaulettes and gold medals indicating his rank, matching trousers and high black leather boots. A hard cap with a visor decorated with gold embroidery concealed a shaved head, slightly shaded dark where the hair had been cut.
He was an air force lieutenant, part of the Imperial Japanese Army at the time. Lieutenant Tanaka was a man in his mid-20s, with a well-trained physique and proud bearing. Kahori just couldn't understand how a man of that age was already a lieutenant, especially because when he was in the company of her onesan Kiyoko he acted like a dumb kid. Yet, he was already at that rank and, although he didn't have that much money, or maybe he spent everything to see Kiyoko, incredibly he had managed to become Kiyoko's danna*.
Not that Kiyoko's life had been easy in that damned Okiya. Their okasan had repeatedly opposed that proposal, arguing that Lieutenant Tanaka couldn't afford to become the danna of the most influential geisha in their Okiya, and in all of Gion. That Kiyoko needed a richer danna, who didn't look as clueless as he did.
However, to the surprise of their okasan, Tanaka had managed to become Kiyoko's only danna, satisfying all the absurd demands of their okasan.
They truly seemed to embody the idea that “love can conquer all”.
Kahori couldn't explain where he got all the money, since danna were usually older and held much more important roles than he did. Perhaps the fact that he was in the military gave him more influence than Kahori had imagined. Her okasan had never done anything untoward. Never .
Yet, that incredible love story had taken shape. In a way Kahori didn't understand. Not because she was jealous of Kiyoko, but because love was simply something too complicated in their world. Often, the danna weren’t people geisha were in love with. Their clients remained ordinary clients, far from being someone to love. Geisha were artists, sometimes entertaining clients meant adapting to the client's needs, to satisfy them, to make them happy. But did that make geisha happy too?
Of course, some geisha did fall in love with a client, but if the latter didn't have the money to become a danna or even to pay off their debt completely...well that love became forbidden. It became painful. It became nothing but a burden, another reason to resent that life even more. Because a good geisha had to be loyal to her danna, or her “dannas”, and could not “ give herself ” to anyone else.
Kiyoko had revealed to her that Tanaka was saving a lot of money in order to pay off her debt. The Japanese Air Force was making strides in technology and would soon be able to make aircraft in their own country. Yes, basically business was going well and he was investing all that money to free the woman of his life.
It was all so damn romantic.
But not everyone was like Kiyoko and Tanaka. Some geisha had committed suicide for love, others to run away with their lovers, although only a few had managed to escape capture by the police. Whenever a geisha escaped, her Okiya would inevitably fall into disgrace. Others had renounced the love of their life because their lovers were too poor to pay their debt, while others had been abandoned, deluded into believing that this love was really genuine . Kahori had even once heard of a geisha from the Oikiya next door who had committed suicide because she was pregnant by her own danna and, when he found out, he abandoned her. Why? Because she was simply a geisha. She was just a lover, nothing more. Because he already had a family behind him and she wasn't part of it, she would never be part of it .
It was a difficult world. Yet what had happened to Kiyoko could be a source of hope for many other geisha.
“They are cute, aren't they?” muttered Yachi, who had approached the window with silent steps. “I wish I had a love like that too.”
“It is so rare as to be almost impossible. Love is only an illusion for those who, like us, cannot afford it,” Kahori warned her.
Yachi huffed, then moved even closer to Kahori. “But don't you think love makes us alive? I mean, look at the onesan Kiyoko: since she met Tanaka, she's different. Why do you find it so wrong to even dream of a love like that?”
“What makes us alive? Huh?” muttered Kahori. “And you, Yachi, have you experienced this?”
Yachi had always thought of love as almost fictional. And Kahori envied her energy, her desire to keep believing in that love. Kahori was a good geisha. Probably not as good as her older sister Kiyoko, but she knew how to do it well, she knew how to use what she had been taught to work: dance, singing and music. But inside everything seemed still, static. And the more she attended private events, the more she felt a part of herself leaving. At this rate she would become just an empty shell. So empty that not even freedom would be able to fill it.
Yachi curled up on the floor, snuggled into her sleeping yukata and brought her legs to her chest. “There's a guy,” she began to say, “he's a postman I meet every morning when he comes to deliver letters in our neighbourhood. I wish I could talk to him more, but…”
Kahori shook her head, her eyes lost in the garden now bathed in the muffled silence of the snow. “He's just a postman ,” she repeated, sighed.
Yachi, however, wasn't deterred. She slowly rose, approaching the windowsill, and with a shy smile continued: “But, do you know? Every day, when I meet him, there is something about him that speaks to me of a different world. Perhaps, even if he is only a postman, his presence is like a small light in the midst of the darkness that surrounds us. It is the hope of something different.”
Kahori lowered her gaze, Yachi's words turning on in her a mixture of envy and hope. “A light,” she murmured softly, as if trying to grasp that elusive illusion. “You know, sometimes I wonder how wonderful it would be to fly away, just like that crow who, although losing a leg, still has wings to get away. Everything in life has a price .”
Silence enveloped the two geishas for a few moments, interrupted only by the faint rustle of falling snow, as if reminding them of the relentless passage of time.
❀ ❀ ❀
The okasan walked upstairs with a firm step and an impassive face, her cold, scrutinising eyes catching every detail of the room. She looked at the mess, as if a tornado had just passed, then turned to look sharply at Tsuru, the little shikomi of the Okiya.
“W...we were the ones who made this mess, we're going to clean it up,” Yachi hastened to say, who already sensed a resounding reprimand, and punishment, to Tsuru. Although Kahori and Yachi could be punished for the disorder, Tsuru was the maid and she had to ensure that the geisha or maiko disorder was also cleaned up.
“I'll deal with you two later,” she cut it short, immediately turning to look at Kahori. “Kahori, get ready immediately. Tonight, Wakatoshi-san has requested you for an event and I won't tolerate any delays.”
The okasan had always been an extremely calculating and cold woman, hardly inclined to show emotion and follow the needs of her geisha. Their world was too competitive, it took very little to put an Okiya in a bad light. Their okasan had only started to soften toward Kiyoko, when the latter had brought their house into the limelight. In fact, the okasan seemed to soften only if a geisha brought in a lot of money, otherwise she was the same okasan as always: grumpy, intransigent and strict.
Kiyoko had always been the leading star of the Okiya, endowed with overwhelming beauty and elegance. Perhaps she was never one to mince words, but her shy demeanor masked a more enterprising side, winning one client after another. She was truly a woman to take inspiration from: refined, with delicate manners but never inclined to be subjected to what she didn't want to do. She always lent a hand to help her younger sisters, or the new apprentices, even if it meant getting in trouble herself.
And what about Kahori and Yachi. They were younger than Kiyoko, about three years apart, but one could see that they lacked experience. They were two really beautiful girls, although once they wore that make-up, there wasn't that much difference between one and the other. It wasn't the make-up that made a geisha beautiful, it was how they presented theirself with the clients that made the difference.
Yachi and Kahori were as close as they were different.
Politeness and kindness were two obligatory qualities in their world, yet Kahori had always been much more outspoken and direct than Yachi. And this could have been an interesting trait, as much as a little ‘harmful’ if used with the wrong client. Because Kahori had never deeply accepted that life and when she found herself with ‘too many pushy’ clients, she tended to show her edgier side, as if that was the only way to escape from that situation. Kiyoko had always scolded her about her temperament: “there is no need to get upset every time. A smile and politeness are just the key to dealing with anything, remember that.”
Yachi, on the other hand, had always been the most awkward of the group, the shyest, perhaps the most compliant. And this submissive side of her was always criticised by Kahori: because she never had to compromise with anyone, especially if she had no intention of “ going further ”. And, fortunately, Kahori and Kiyoko had managed to protect her under ‘their wings’ all that time.
Yachi was indeed a tiny and graceful geisha, when she became familiar she could really be a good geisha, friendly, cheerful, good at taking an interest in any subject proposed by clients.
Kiyoko, Kahori and Yachi had managed to become friends. And this was no small feat, since competition was often even internal in the same Okiya. Their world was never to be taken for granted. Yet they had somehow managed to remain afloat. Even if, most likely, Kiyoko would have left that house much sooner than the two of them imagined.
"Wakatoshi again ," Kahori murmured, her voice tinged with quiet curiosity rather than irritation.
The okasan took her long pipe and gave Kahori a light blow on the head. “Be thankful that he is taking an interest in you. If you put this house to shame, I swear I'll sell you to another Okiya,” she hissed, before walking back downstairs.
Yachi approached Kahori as soon as she had made sure that the okasan had left. “Why is the okasan always so angry when she talks about Wakatoshi?”
“Because he is an entrepreneur who owns a military company in Tokyo. She wants Wakatoshi to become my danna,” Kahori began to explain, as she took a comb to brush her long black hair. “He's obsessed with theatre. I heard from a client last night that a well-known theatre company in Tokyo is going to perform in Kyoto for the first time at the Minami-za theatre.”
“So you're going to see the Kabuki?” asked Yachi, grabbing a sleeve of Kahori's yukata. “I've always wanted to attend such a performance. How did Wakatoshi get access?”
Kahori shrugged her shoulders. “I think it's normal, don't you? Wakatoshi has a lot of money and he loves Kabuki, they probably invited him for kiss his ass and make him cough up a lot of yen to sponsor the next shows.”
But Yachi hadn't been listening to her for several seconds, as she had been staring at the mirror where Kahori's face was reflected. Her eyes were dreamy. “I wonder how many actors there will be,” she murmured.
“Hope it’ll be over soon,” Kahori cut in short, before starting to slather on a rice-based cream they used as a base to give their skin that typical white colour like ‘a porcelain doll’.
❀ ❀ ❀
The evening air was saturated with the scent of grilled fish and slow-burning incense from nearby temples. Kyoto, illuminated by flickering lanterns and small street lamps, looked like a city suspended between eras: on the one hand, the advancing modernity, buildings built on foreign models, clothes that were becoming more and more similar to Western styles, as well as the increasing presence of foreign faces; on the other, the irresistible lure of tradition, which found its purest expression in the Kabuki theatre, the teahouses, and the dance of the geisha.
In front of one of these teahouses, a black carriage with brass details waited motionless. The dark-clad coachman remained impassive, while a man stood imposingly in the soft glow of a street lamp: Wakatoshi Ushijima .
He stood there with his usual austerity, his hands crossed behind his back, his strong jaw outlined in the dim light. The western dress he wore, an impeccable black suit, seemed like an armour between him and the world around him. He didn't mingle with the crowd, he wasn't part of that lively chaos: he was there, standing firm, like a granite pillar in the middle of the current. His Western attire was a clear sign of how their culture was rapidly becoming Westernized.
As the sliding door of the tea house opened, the rustle of silk heralded Kahori’s arrival. Her kimono was a masterpiece: a deep plum-coloured background with silver embroidery representing waves crashing on the shore. The fusion between the movement of the water and the static nature of the rocks seemed to tell of her own condition: fluid, yet imprisoned . Her lips were painted a vivid red, and she wore the shorter obi of the maiko, as tradition dictated.
She stopped in front of Ushijima, bending her head slightly in a measured bow. “Wakatoshi-sama*,” she greeted, her voice a perfect balance of grace and reservedness.
The man stood looking at her, his eyebrows moving slightly, imperceptibly. Kahori saw him nod quickly, as if to ascertain that who was in front of him, what he had paid for, satisfied his requirements. “You look fine. Get in the carriage,” he said briefly, almost atonal. There was no nuance in his voice, no annoyance, but no happiness either. He was always very blunt and direct in everything, although Kahori couldn't say for sure that he did it ‘on purpose’. It was simply his personality.
As the carriage began its journey to the Minami-za theatre, life around Kahori began to flow. The cold night air bit at her carefully made-up cheeks as she watched the people on the city streets. In the Gion district, teahouses were animated by the faint sound of shamisen and the discreet giggles muffled behind silk sleeves. Outside the most exclusive tearooms, wealthy men waited patiently for the geisha to arrive, while young apprentices, the maiko, glided silently through the shadows, following their older sisters.
“Purple,” murmured Wakatoshi, looking straight ahead.
“Ah, you've noticed, have you?” chirped Kahori, bringing one sleeve of her kimono in front of her mouth to emit an amused giggle. “A little bird told me you love purple,” she hummed.
“A bird?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, already knowing that Kahori's giggle would be the only answer he'd receive. And he was fine with that after all. He didn't really care to know the answer. Not least because, if he had wanted an answer, he certainly wouldn't have settled for just a giggle.
Also because it would have been really strange to tell Mr. Wakatoshi that her okasan had forced her to go and extort information from his favourite teahouse, which was run by a man as bizarre as he was creepy. A certain Satori Tendou . After numerous battles to keep up with his madman's psychological games, she had managed to extract that fucking boring information from him.
The young geisha sighed softly. She had never really understood Wakatoshi. She had never understood why he had been so persistent in calling her to entertain him and his colleagues in teahouses for the past few months. He was a very unusual man. Kahori couldn't understand him fully, but she had begun to realise that he was simply a man of few words. He didn't like to dwell on small talk, but he loved to listen to Kahori sing or play music. From time to time Kahori could even say that he liked to watch her dance.
He had always been obsessed with work—perhaps too dedicated. So much so that he spoke exclusively about it. And Kahori could also believe that he was good at his job, despite the fact that he had inherited the company from his father. Yes, he had basically had the good fortune to be born into a wealthy family, the head of a very famous military company. However, Wakatoshi had proved to be fully up to that title, as if he was naturally predisposed in what he did. A natural gift, that is. And a pinch of luck.
But between Kahori and Wakatoshi there had never been anything that could be called “intriguing”. He wasn't a man of many words and Kahori merely did her “homework” like a good student. She had studied a lot to be able to discuss, those rare times, with him about his company and the politics of the moment. But Kahori could almost swear that, the moment he had decided to choose her as his geisha for his meetings, had been the very first day they had met.
That time there had also been other geisha in the tea room, but Kahori had been the smallest of the entertainers and had gladly left room for the others geisha.
“You are so quiet today, Kahori. Tell me... don't you enjoy my company?” a man beside Wakatoshi had asked. Since they had started the evening, the man had been particularly nagging towards Kahori, and the latter had tried hard to get away from him.
“Not every word fits every occasion,” Kahori had replied, sketching a smile as he poured more sake into the man's cup, hoping the alcohol would finally shut him up.
“So quiet, but always with a ready answer, huh?” the man had muttered, sobbing immediately afterwards.
A sentence, seemingly innocent, but which evidently concealed a meaning that the man hadn't understood. Not him, at least.
Kahori couldn't explain why, but from that very day, Wakatoshi had started to request her constantly.
Notes:
*The phrase was taken from the book by Mineko Iwasaki.
*Shikomi: As soon as girls arrive at the okiya, they enter the first stage of learning and are called "shikomi". They were immediately put to work as maids.
*Okiya: The term okiya (置屋) indicates the "geisha houses".
*Okasan: The owner of the okiya is called "mother".
*Ochaya: an ochaya (お茶屋, literally "tea house") is an establishment where patrons are entertained by geisha.
*Danna: The word danna (旦那?) in Japanese means master/protector. The danna is the one who takes care of everything a geisha needs. The person who chose a geisha to be her danna made a contract with the owner of the okiya. Geisha and danna did not live under the same roof, but when he announced his visit the geisha had to prove herself completely available to him, even though in his absence she could have other clients. The geisha had the possibility of refusing a danna, but only if she was in great demand, otherwise she risked not finding another, which would have tied her to working for the "mother" forever.
*Onesan: older geisha are called “oneshan”, or “big sister”, by younger geisha/maiko/shikomi.
*Suffix “-sama”: This is used when you have a really high level of respect for a person. Kahori uses it to emphasize how he has an extremely important and high social position.絹糸 (Kinuito) → “Kinu” means “Silk” and “Ito” means “threads”.
Each chapter name is named after a flower. The meaning of the flowers differs from source to source, I simply chose mine <3. The meaning of the names I’m going to give is multiple, it doesn't only refer to my protagonist, but also to other characters, to the context etc.
“Tsubaki” means “Camellia”: In addition to representing the arrival of spring in ancient Japanese culture, the camellia has been attributed to meanings such as "devotion and eternal love", but also "new beginnings".
Chapter Text
The area around the theatre was a mixture of all kinds of people. Some political officials, or businessmen of a certain prominence, had recently started to dress in typical western clothes, and they could be distinguished among the Japanese bourgeoisie, still dressed in kimonos. Kahori had rarely seen women adopt such a western style, but from time to time a few foreign faces had appeared on the street, giving her an idea of what the world outside her ‘home’ must be like.
It was the first time Kahori went to see a Kabuki performance. And many of her ‘colleagues’, including Yachi, had told her that she was particularly lucky. And indeed Kahori had begun to think that, yes, maybe she had actually gotten lucky. However, being surrounded by so many rich people only made her uncomfortable. She didn't feel like she belonged to that world. Everything seemed so much for her.
Wakatoshi walked into the theatre, his gaze fixed in front of him and with the confident attitude of someone who was used to walking among that kind of people. From time to time someone stopped to greet him, or gave him a respectful greeting without bothering him much. Whereas Kahori, she walked beside him, one step behind, her face high but her gaze slightly lowered, somewhat detached. The drapes of her kimono swayed gracefully, but the step was different from Wakatoshi's. She had no idea where he was going. She was never the one to choose where to go .
They sat in the front row, together with other people including Kahori, in long rows of chairs next to each other. She was quite surprised to sit there, among the bourgeoisie, among people who could literally buy her entertainment. She had rarely experienced a situation like that, where she didn't have to dance, sing or play, but she had to physically accompany someone to such an important event. Still, Kahori could feel the weight of that situation. The gazes on her. Sure, Kahori didn't doubt that they were fascinated by her beauty and her world. But what was she? She was simply an accessory of the man everyone knew as Wakatoshi Ushijima.
Kahori pulled a small fan from the sleeve of her kimono, waved it in front of her face, as if to ward off stares, thoughts, anything around her. And, fortunately for her, the beginning of the show gave her a break. When silence was Kahori's only relief, the performance began. At the side of the stage were musicians, while the main scenes of the story unfolded in the centre of the stage. The story was an old one that happened between 1567-1615 and was about Sanada Yukimura*, the last Sengoku hero. Kahori remained listening to that story, which she had read before with a very different kind of narrative from the one she was experiencing now. The colours, the actors' make-up, the choreography, the script. Everything was coming to life in front of her, alternating between frenetic and slower moments.
Everything seemed to involve her in a mixture of emotions she hadn't expected to feel. She remembered well what she had told Yachi: “she would have liked to see only the end of the show so she could leave”. Still, a part of her seemed to be really caught up in those scenes.
Then, on stage, the main character of the story appeared, accompanied by a sequence of taiko drums that made her body vibrate. When the protagonist made his entrance in his crimson armour, Kahori barely held her breath. The red samurai soon found himself fighting and Kahori stood staring at him, almost bewitched. His movements were fluid, as if gliding across the stage, they were light yet precise and calculated. Every gesture, every tilt of his head, every movement of the katana in his hand told a story that transcended words. It was beauty, it was nimbleness, it was pure art.
The samurai sheathed his katana, took off his helmet and a mane of brown hair emerged. He took a few steps forward, he uttered one sentence after another, in a monologue full of pain and anger. Every word flowed off him in a script recited over and over again, branded on his skin by endless hours of rehearsals. The audience watched him with adoring eyes, their breath in their throats.
And when he concluded his solemn speech, he turned to look at the audience, aware that he had captured them all.
And it was at that very moment that it happened.
A mere instant, a fraction of a second lost in the flow of the performance, but enough to carve a vivid image in Kahori's mind. The actor's eyes – as sharp as the blade of a katana, as intense as a dancing flame in the darkness of the theatre – rested on her.
There was no reason why he would have noticed her. Not her, not among the multitude of faces immersed in the darkness of the theatre, all mesmerised by his movements, by his voice that resounded with the power of restrained thunder. Yet Kahori felt it. She felt that look pass through her, breaking through the armour that covered her, as if suddenly there was no cloth to cover her, no mask to conceal her. Just her, stripped of all artifice.
She shivered. Instinctively, she brought the fan to her face, hiding her lips behind the elegant weave of paper and wood, leaving only her eyes uncovered. She needed a barrier, even a thin one, between herself and that sudden fire that warmed her chest. Something inside her had moved, silent but tangible, like a blade of grass bent by a gust of wind.
Was that the magic of kabuki?
No, it wasn’t love. It wasn’t a desire. It was something more subtle, more cruel perhaps. An unexpected flame, a crack in the perfect balance she had so carefully constructed.
And then, as if to break that unreal moment, she felt a slight movement beside her.
“Did you like it?” Wakatoshi's voice came low, controlled.
Kahori barely gasped, clearing her throat in an attempt to dissipate the heat that had lurked inside her. She lifted her fan and moved it gracefully, trying to cool her face as she realised he wasn't just watching her: he was studying her.
Slowly, she shifted her gaze towards him, aware of how difficult it was to mask the turmoil in her still tense body. Thanks to the flawless make-up, no one could have noticed the redness on her cheeks, but Kahori felt it, sensed it spreading like a fire under her skin.
“ Art is always fascinating, Wakatoshi-sama,” she finally replied, carefully choosing each word, calibrating her tone to be both detached and smug.
Wakatoshi remained silent for a few moments. He merely observed her, with that immovable, penetrating gaze that seemed to dig beyond words, beyond studied gestures. Kahori realised she was holding her breath.
Then, almost carelessly, he barely inclined his head and murmured, with a hint of irony in his voice: “The art, or the man ?”
Kahori smiled gracefully, an expression that was a perfect balance between courtesy and malice. Then she tilted her head slightly in a measured gesture, maintaining that air of composed elegance that characterised her.
“What a perceptive man,” she hummed, letting the words slip from her lips with studied lightness. “But I would say that kabuki is a bit like my world: art and human beings merge, intertwine, enhance each other... until it creates something sublime.”
Wakatoshi watched her for a moment longer, assessing the truthfulness of that answer. Then, turning towards the stage, he murmured with his usual bluntness: “You are a better actress than I imagined.”
Kahori lowered her eyes, suppressing a sigh that had risen to her throat. What had happened, exactly? How was it possible that he had caught so much about her in a single instant? When had he turned to look at her? And then, had she really seemed so fascinated by that samurai? Everything had been consumed in a split second, a mere blink of an eye.
But again, on second thought... was Kahori really certain that the samurai had looked at her?
The stage continued to vibrate with life, yet for her it all seemed distant, muffled, as if she were imprisoned in a world apart. The sound of the shamisen stretched like a thin, almost unreal thread, while the voices of the actors reached her muffled fragments of a reality from which she suddenly felt separated.
Everything had stopped, at least for her.
And in her mind, by now, there seemed to be only one thought: when would that samurai return to the stage?
Because, suddenly, nothing else seemed to matter any more.
❀ ❀ ❀
Evening enveloped the red-light district in a veil of dark silk, broken only by the flickering light of the lanterns that outlined the contours of the many teahouses, the Ochaya*. The air was thick with familiar smells: incense burned in thin spirals near the entrances of the houses, mingling with the roasted scent of a few dishes.
Wakatoshi and Kahori were walking towards what was to be a very important meeting. Kahori had known very little about that evening, but she guessed, from what little information she had, that the owner of the theatre company wanted to talk with Wakatoshi. What Kahori couldn't have imagined was that, together with the owner of the theatre company, there were also two other figures. The first, with a more gruff air but a proud bearing, was Iwaizumi Hajime, the company's Tateshi*, while the second was Oikawa Tooru, the famous leading actor who had interpreted Sanada Yukimura. In the centre of the two men was another imposing figure, Kuroo Tetsuo, as well as the head of the Kabuki theatre company. The three were chatting cheerfully when Wakatoshi’s arrival interrupted their speech.
Time seemed to play the same nasty trick on Kahori as an hour before, during the performance. Again those eyes rested on her. Just a glance. His hazel eyes, without helmets to frame his face, without make-up or old clothes. Those hazel eyes, bright, perhaps a little mischievous.
And as if nothing had happened, Oikawa barely bowed his head, a simple gesture, a greeting. Not towards his client Wakatoshi, but towards her . A delicate, elegant hint, just for her.
Kahori barely, imperceptibly swallowed, lowered her gaze then bowed her head, much lower than he had done. A greeting, formal, to greet all three of them. However, when she raised her head, Oikawa was still staring at her, a slight smile on his lips.
In the warm light of the lanterns, the Shiratori teahouse fills with a soft, measured buzz, an elegant contrast to the vitality of Kyoto's streets. The scent of toasted tea and hot sake stirs in the air.
In a small, private room, the owner of the teahouse Tendou had accompanied his clients. Kahori had waited until they were seated before going to get what Tendou had previously prepared: a steaming cup of roasted tea, a few courses of grilled fish and plenty of sake.
When Kahori entered the room with Tendou, she found Wakatoshi and the others sitting on low wooden tables while they were discussing.
“So, Wakatoshi-san, did tonight's performance live up to expectations?” asked Kuroo, sipping a steaming hot cup of sake.
Wakatoshi raised his face to look Kuroo straight in the eyes: “Sanada Yukimura was represented in an... interesting way .”
Oikawa put down his cup of sake, a little too theatrically, as he watched that imposing figure judge what had been their job for so long. “Huh? I'm curious. What impressed you?”
Wakatoshi turned to look at Oikawa. “The interpretation wasn't inaccurate ,” he merely said.
Basically, he hadn't said much. Kahori couldn't understand the reason for such ambiguity, not from someone who had no problem saying everything directly. However, Kahori could feel a certain tension in the air, as if they had dealt with each other before. In short, they knew each other better than Kahori imagined.
“It's not so accurate as to impress you, I suppose,” hummed the actor, showing a charming smile that betrayed ill-concealed disappointment. Oikawa slowly turned the glass between his fingers, letting the sake swirl in the thin ceramic. His smile remained intact, but something sharper flashed in his eyes.
“I am not a man easily impressed,” Wakatoshi replied with his usual firmness, bringing the glass to his lips.
Kuroo cast a glance between the two, as if he were attending a private show. “Ahh, a difficult audience to conquer, huh?” he commented with a sly smile.
“I wouldn't call it difficult,” Oikawa replied, bending his head slightly sideways. “Maybe just... lacking in imagination .”
Kahori, leaning over the table, kept her expression composed, but couldn't help but sense the subtle duel that was taking place. Wakatoshi, with his unwavering solidity, and Oikawa, with his ability to provoke with elegance, seemed to be dancing around something unresolved.
“Imagination is necessary when reality falls short,” replied Wakatoshi with unflappable calm.
Oikawa chuckled, shaking his head. “Then I am glad to hear that you do not rely on it too much. It would be a shame if reality never lived up to your expectations,” murmured, bringing his glass to his lips without looking away from the other.
Kuroo cleared his throat, breaking the tension with a soft cough. “Well, I suppose our Sanada Yukimura will have to work a little harder to earn the great Wakatoshi-san's approval.”
Wakatoshi didn't reply immediately, placing the glass on the table with a measured touch. “It is not a matter of approval,” he finally said. “Rather, of fidelity to the story.”
Oikawa leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the table and his chin on the back of his hand. “Ah, fidelity to history... I wonder though, Wakatoshi-san, if you are not a little too anchored in the past.”
A faint silence fell over the room. Kahori lowered her gaze to the shamisen in her hands, her fingers brushing the strings without playing them.
Wakatoshi remained impassive. “History is what defines us,” he replied simply.
Oikawa stared at him for a long moment, then smiled again, a more genuine smile this time. “Maybe. Or maybe true fidelity to history lies in knowing when to let it evolve.”
Kuroo laughed softly, clapping a hand on Iwaizumi's shoulder. “And with this pearl of philosophy, I propose another round of sake.”
Kahori sat down to play something with the shamisen, though her performance was short-lived, since somebody had been pointing his eyes at her for... a little too long. And Kahori had realised it. She had sensed that something was going on in that extravagant actor's head. But it was difficult for her to comprehend it until that moment....
Oikawa barely tilted his head, a dart of amusement rippling his gaze as he lifted the small ceramic cup and let a sip of sake slip onto his tongue. The clear liquid caught the soft light of the lantern beside him for a moment, before his lips curved into an almost distracted smile. Then, without taking his eyes off Kahori, he asked with studied nonchalance, his voice smooth: “And our gracious Kahori? What does she think?”
The sound of her name, pronounced with that calculated lightness, made her imperceptibly lift her gaze. She met his look, for a single, fleeting instant, but it was enough. She knew that Oikawa had already read her answer before she could even formulate it into words. He had caught her in the way her eyes had followed his every movement on stage, in the invisible sway of her held breath in the most intense moments. It was a subtle game, one at which he excelled, and she had no intention of giving him the satisfaction of instant confirmation.
But here, in front of everyone, she couldn't just say that. It was really stupid to take sides against Wakatoshi. In the end, the one who had the dagger in the hand was certainly not her. Part of her knew that Wakatoshi wasn’t so resentful or touchy as to be offended by such stupidities. Still, Kahori read a subtle competition, a silent battle between him and Oikawa. And she wasn't so keen on playing with fire. Not at least in front of all those people.
She lowered her eyelids gracefully, gently resting her hands on the shamisen. “An interesting interpretation ... is the one that manages to grab the attention of someone without having to ask for it,” she declared, sketching a smile.
Was that the answer he wanted? Well, it was up to him to interpret that answer. Had he been good enough to catch the attention? Or did Kahori's sentence allude to the fact that, well as an actor, to call himself like that, he had to do it that way. Kahori liked to call those answers ‘ambiguous’. The truth could be denoted in many ways and she was neither rude, nor disrespectful to anyone.
Kuroo chuckled, tapping his fingers against the table. “I see that Kahori knows how to give you a hard time, huh Oikawa?”
Oikawa touched a lock of hair, feigning a bored air. “Ah, and yet, certain kinds of attention must always be asked for, even when one would rather not,” he said, alluding to the pitiful scene Kuroo was putting on to make a handful of money.
Iwaizumi huffed, elbowing his friend. “What more attention would you like? Tell me. Aren't all the ones you have enough?” joked Iwaizumi, indirectly scolding him for his sometimes too childish attitude.
None of the three of them liked doing that. None of them would have wanted to ask for money from a man like Wakatoshi who, despite being the same age as them, had reached a social and economic level that they could only imagine. But life sucked sometimes and if eating some of their pride meant they could take their show to other cities and make money, then they should have done it. Because without spectators and without money, they would end up on the street begging. Ok, maybe they would have managed somehow, but that would have meant saying goodbye to their Kabuki dream.
Between the uncertain future and the government funding industries and military forces, the only foothold were people like Wakatoshi. Wealthy businessmen who had so much money to invest in something like Kabuki.
“So, Wakatoshi-san, can we come to terms somehow?” asked Kuroo, returning to the topic of financing again.
Wakatoshi spoke slowly: “Prove to me that art can reflect history, without frills or distortions, and perhaps I might be able to give my support. I do not promise miracles, but I respect those who have the courage to represent the truth for what it is, without compromise.”
“If the payment for our shows were made in the measure of gazes, I'd say the balance would already have been entirely filled... thanks to a particularly eloquent look , wouldn't you?” muttered Oikawa, glancing at his friend Iwaizumi for a brief moment, until he shifted his gaze to Kahori.
The geisha gracefully brushed the strings of the shamisen, letting the melody intertwine with the rhythmic beat of the night. Her fingers danced lightly on the smooth handle of the instrument, each note a fragment of history, each vibration an echo of distant eras. From time to time, her voice would rise low and caress, intoning verses from ancient poems, like a whisper carried by the wind through the walls of the teahouse.
She barely blinked, breathing deeply to stifle the urge to grab the shamisen and throw it at that actor's head. That would have been terribly unprofessional, as well as unforgivable in the eyes of her okasan. And Kahori was well aware that the okasan wouldn't merely reprimand her with sharp words, she would punish her without mincing her words. That was not an euphemism.
She plucked the strings again, letting the sound fill the silence. Then, with a barely perceptible hint of melancholy, her voice merged with the music, again:
“Sing an old theme:
It is no invitation, but a whispered secret,
that art is not sold to the eyes,
and a true flower has no price."
Kuroo clapped, “Oh? I've never heard this poem!”
Kahori smiled warmly: “It's very old, actually,” she lied.
However, she couldn't really understand the actor's obstinacy in bothering her. Was he enjoying himself in that game? Was he having that much fun annoying her? Why the hell did he find it so amusing? Maybe he liked to annoy her because in some weird way she was connected to the man he seemed to detest? It was no joke. Wakatoshi was a rich and influential man, yet it wouldn't have done any good to make his geisha look bad. Because he could simply have chosen another one.
And although Kahori hated the fact, Wakatoshi had the money and, if he became her danna, there was good hope that one day he would be able to redeem her. In a way, her life wouldn't have changed that much. Quite simply, the rope of the noose around her neck would have passed into the hands of another person . She wouldn't have been a free woman. But, at least, she would have left that district. She would have had more security, probably even food would have been a certainty in her life. What he could give her was something they clearly couldn't understand.
And as for that actor. Well, if he hadn't made an attempt on her precarious position, it might even have been amusing to watch him bow to Wakatoshi's will. They needed money, right? Then they would have to comply with his demands.
Kahori stared at Oikawa, her eyes sparkling with an amusement she was struggling to conceal. For a moment she seemed to hesitate, as if savouring the moment, then her lips curved into a slow, studied smile. As the others returned to their discussion, with measured steps, she moved just a little closer, just enough to maintain an air of impeccable formality, but enough to make her words reach only him, low and sharp as the edge of a well-honed blade. “ How does it feel to have a noose around your neck, huh? ”
Oikawa stiffened. The blow had been dealt with surgical precision, and his ever-vigilant pride felt it coming a moment too late for him to defend himself. Kahori had hit the target with the grace of an artist, slipping through his defences with a naturalness that left him speechless. Yet, in some distant corner of his mind, something in him was taking pleasure in that unexpected twist, that venomous twist that gave flavour to the game.
Here’s who was hiding behind those restrained smiles, those elusive glances, those impeccable bows. Behind those damn awkward giggles.
Oikawa barely tilted his head, letting an equally studied smile curve his lips. Then, in a mellifluous voice, he replied with the same sharp elegance with which he had been challenged. “So that's your true form , Miss Kahori.”
His words slipped through the air with the sweetness of honey, but with the bitter aftertaste of poison.
Notes:
*Ochaya: In Japan, an ochaya (お茶屋, literally "tea house") is an establishment where patrons are entertained by geisha.
*Tateshi 立師: Choreographers and fight masters who taught the action scenes.
*Sanada Yukimura: Sanada Yukimura (真田 幸村), was a Japanese samurai warrior of the Sengoku period. He was especially known as the leading general on the defending side of the Siege of Osaka. Yukimura was called "A Hero who may appear once in a hundred years", "Crimson Demon of War" and "The Last Sengoku Hero"."Suisen" means "Narcissus": In Greek mythology, it represents vanity and self-reflection. But in other traditions, the Narcissus is considered a symbol of rebirth and renewal.
As you can see, I put the number of chapters. I want to specify that this is a short fanfic, where everything happens in a few chapters (also because from a time point of view sometimes weeks pass, others months). I deliberately chose to keep it short.
Chapter 3: Kiku 菊
Summary:
Kahori manages to create the right atmosphere for Yachi to talk to Hinata, however, when she is left alone, she runs into a certain actor...
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
“THAT IDIOT,” shouted Kahori, throwing a zori across the room.
For at least five minutes Yachi, Kiyoko and Tsuru had been watching, motionless, her frantic gesticulating, her exasperated expressions, her irritated snorts. She looked like a wild madwoman, drawn into the vortex of her own narrative as she desperately tried to make sense of the events of the night before. The way she waved her hands, as if she could physically catch the right words in the air, made the scene even more surreal, or bizarre .
Every now and then she had stopped to look at the three girls, hoping for a reaction, a signal that would help her clear up the chaos in her mind. But they continued to stare at her, motionless and attentive, without interrupting her, giving her time to unload.
And so, between a choked curse and an exasperated sigh, they had finally reached the crucial moment of the story.
“Was he provoking you? Why would he do that?” asked Yachi, bringing both hands to her mouth. “I don't know how you did it, I probably would have panicked.”
Kiyoko sighed “It's really amazing how you can put yourself in certain situations,” she murmured, sketching an amused smirk. “You didn't act recklessly, did you?”
Kahori rolled her eyes, dropped onto a pillow, then huffed audibly. “No, I did as you taught me. I made him understand that he had to stay in his place...without actually telling him.”
“I think that in cases like these, the best solution is to ignore him completely. He seems to be a rather stubborn and willful guy. Are you really sure you did nothing to annoy him?” Asked Kiyoko, looking at her with a gaze that didn't admit ambiguous or false answers.
Kahori moistened her lips, starting to play with a lock of hair. “Annoy him? I'm not so dumb,” she hummed, shrugging her shoulders indifferently.
Kiyoko narrowed her gaze, the two women stared at each other for a brief moment, but neither of them continued the conversation. Kiyoko realised that something else had happened, but she couldn't quantify the seriousness of the situation. And Kahori didn't seem interested in specifying what she had said to the actor. Because yes, Kahori had indeed taken all the barbs he had thrown at her and sent them back to him in one fell swoop. Right at his pride .
But the convivial and cheerful atmosphere, if they could call it that, was soon interrupted by their okasan, who asked Yachi and Kahori to fetch a ‘present’ just outside their neighbourhood. An order, to tell the truth, quite frequent from the okasan. Because when it wasn't the clients who delivered something to their okiya, it was often the okasan herself who asked the geisha to fetch what she needed. And, punctually, Kiyoko was never the one designated to go on errands.
As soon as they were out of their okiya and walking down the main street of Gion, Kahori huffed theatrically, crossing her arms under her weighty kimono. On such occasions, there was no reason to dress in expensive kimonos or wear makeup, as they weren't to entertain anyone. So, the few times they went out, they could afford a simple kimono and a neat but not elaborate hairstyle. And fortunately, they could also let their skin breathe a little from that white make-up they were forced to put on.
“Do you really think that old hag of an okasan got the rice with gratitude alone?” she whispered with an amused grin. “She must have unleashed her entire arsenal of honeyed words and distressed looks to convince that poor woman.”
Yachi brought a hand to her lips to hold back a nervous giggle. “Kahori, if she hears us talking like this, she'll make us clean the garden for a month.”
“It would almost be worth it. At least I could spit these things in her face,” Kahori murmured, watching the roofs of the houses silhouetted against the clear morning sky. “Cleaning the garden is almost magnanimous punishment compared to the ones I've received.”
They were continuing on their way, passing the houses of the other geisha and the shops that were preparing for the day. The scent of cooked rice mingled with that of roasted tea, creating a pleasant atmosphere. It was just as they were crossing one of the side streets that a quick movement caught Yachi's attention. An orange-haired boy moved with incredible agility between houses, balancing a stack of parcels and letters tied together with string. His face was lit up with a determined expression, his eyes shining with energy as he sped through the streets on his bike.
“Hinata-kun…” murmured Yachi, slowing her pace and clutching the sleeves of her kimono between her fingers.
Kahori raised an eyebrow, looking at her friend sideways. “Oh? Don't tell me that our little postman is here?”
Yachi cleared her throat, trying not to let it show, but the blush on her cheeks betrayed her. Kahori held back a laugh and, with audacity, stopped short and motioned the boy to come closer. “Hinata-kun!” she called, watching him as he slowed down and looked at her with surprise.
The young postman stopped in front of them, moving his hat off his forehead and smiling with his usual contagious cheerfulness. He made a reverent bow, his cheeks tinged red with embarrassment. “Oh! Kahori-san! Yachi-san! What luck bumping into you two.”
Kahori had never had a real chance to talk to him. She knew him by sight and had only recently learned from her friend that she was completely infatuated with him. Conversations with other people were certainly not forbidden, but there were limits, and if Yachi had been seen talking constantly and insistently to him, someone would probably have gone to tell the okasan. Just to make sure there was no affair underneath.
So the conversations between Yachi and Hinata had been brief, fleeting. He knew of her name because he knew the gesha who worked in that area, at least only by reputation, and she had learned of his name and age from someone else by pure chance. Everything else, well, had simply played out in Yachi's head.
Kahori glanced mischievously at Yachi, who hid shyly behind the sleeve of her kimono, while Hinata, unaware of the girl's upset, continued to talk excitedly. “Did you go out on some errands?”
Kahori nodded, with an enigmatic smile. “Oh yes, a very important task. Apparently, rice is in short supply and the okasan has found a solution... miraculous to restock us rice.”
Hinata laughed, the clear, spontaneous sound making Yachi wince slightly. “If you need help, tell me! I can bring the sacks to your okiya without any trouble!”
Kahori crossed her arms, watching with interest Yachi's reaction, who looked like she was about to faint. “What do you think, Yachi?” she asked with a mischievous smile. “Shall we accept Hinata-kun's help?”
Yachi leaned her head out from behind Kahori, just enough to look at Hinata. “I..I wouldn't want to disturb you. You'll have a lot of deliveries to do.”
Hinata giggled. “It's not a problem! I'm fast, you know?”
Yachi blushed even more, then nodded vigorously.
The trip to the house of the woman who owned the rice wasn't long, but it was enough for Yachi to remain silent for most of the time, answering Hinata's questions in short, nervous sentences. Kahori, with an amused smile on her lips, merely observed the scene, letting the conversation develop naturally between the two.
When they arrived at their destination, the woman greeted them politely and, after a few polite words, brought out the sacks of rice. They were heavier than expected, but Hinata immediately offered to carry them without hesitation.
“No problem! Let me take them!” he exclaimed with his usual enthusiasm, lifting one of the sacks with apparent ease.
Kahori turned slightly, pretending to reflect. “Oh, damn! I just remembered I have an urgent errand to run.”
Yachi looked at her surprised. “Ehh? But the okasan said to-”
“Oh, don't worry! You can bring rice to the okiya with Hinata-kun,” Kahori winked at her with a knowing smirk. “I am sure you will have no problems.”
Hinata nodded, unaware of the subtext. “Sure, don't worry, I'm on it. Yachi-san! Let's go!”
Yachi hesitated, her face now flushed up to her ears, but finally nodded shyly. Kahori took her leave with a wave of her hand, walking away lightly while hiding a satisfied smile. Kahori had created the perfect situation for Yachi and Hinata to talk alone and undisturbed. Now it was their turn to seize the opportunity.
As the buzz of the city sounded in the background, an unmistakable figure appeared from the facade of an elegant fashion shop: Oikawa Tooru, the Kabuki actor known for his magnetic performances. That afternoon, however, he was wearing western clothes: an impeccable white shirt, a tweed waistcoat and well-cut trousers, symbols of the western fashion adopted by the ‘famous’ and the rich.
Their gazes met in a fleeting instant, like blades brushing against each other before striking the decisive blow. For Kahori it was an unexpected surprise, an encounter she hadn't anticipated and which left her suspended for a moment between the past and the present. For Oikawa, on the other hand, it was an unwelcome reminder, a too-close echo of something he would rather have buried.
A thin smile made its way onto his lips, slow and measured, as he shortened the distance between them as lightly as a predator moving in the shadows. “Well, well...Look who’s here.”
His voice was a soft, almost amused whisper, but Kahori immediately recognised its implied venom. Oikawa studied her from above, towering over her with the natural confidence of one who knows exactly what role to play in that game. But this time, Kahori wasn't wrapped in the precious layers of silk that encircled her when she worked, nor adorned by the golden clasps that glittered in her hair. She wasn't surrounded by prestigious people. She was simply herself, ‘free’ of any artifice.
Oikawa tilted his head almost lazily, the ironic flicker in his eyes concealing something deeper, something unspoken. “Did your patron leave you free?”
The words slipped from his lips with the softness of velvet, but the intent was sharp, designed to creep under the skin. A small, subtle taste of the game he himself seemed unable to escape.
Kahori stiffened, tightened one sleeve of her kimono, then looked up to look him straight in the eye. How was it possible for such a handsome man to be such an asshole? He had taken her phrase, which she had said a few weeks ago, really personally. And, well, honestly, Kahori certainly couldn't say she had been funny that day. But she wasn't the one who had started that game, so Oikawa deserved to be treated with the same coin.
"Did you hope to meet him?" She asked, smiling at him falsely. “By any chance, do you want to tell him that you are going to abide by his will and put your pride aside because you need money? How bad it must be to think you are so famous and, at the same time, you have to crawl back to Wakatoshi to light up the stage.”
Oikawa clicked his tongue. “Apparently you are just as annoying as he is. You should stay in your place and not in the middle of this matter. Don't think you're better just because he chose you. It won't change anything and you know it .”
Kahori opened her eyes wide, incredulous. Oikawa's words echoed in her mind like a deafening rumour, distorted and amplified by the indignation mounting inside her. She couldn't believe he had actually said those things. What the hell did he know about her? Nothing .
And it was precisely because he knew nothing—because he had dared to take what she hated most and turn it into a weapon to hurl to her so carelessly—that her hand moved before reason could stop it.
A sharp snap ripped through the silence.
Her hand had found his cheek with the precision and violence of a freshly fired bullet.
Oikawa stood motionless, petrified with disbelief. The skin on his face pulsed, burning under the sudden blow, but it was nothing compared to the wounded pride writhing inside him.
He looked at her with wide eyes, staring at the small willow branch that now stood before him. She was motionless, but her whole figure vibrated with anger, an anger she hadn't fully vented. The eyes of the wisteria colour were half-closed, but it wasn't enough to hide what was inside: indignation, hatred, perhaps even disgust. And deep inside, like a reflection breaking for an instant on the water, a fragment of something even deeper-grief, humanity .
Something trembled inside him, shaking him from that suspended moment and bringing him back to reality with brutal clarity.
She had slapped him.
“ Shit ,” Kahori murmured.
The whisper escaped her lips before she could even stop it. Her heart beat in her chest like a crazed drum, while the heat of the slap she had just given still burned in her palm. Then, without a second thought, she took a step back. Then another. And finally she turned sharply, running away.
Oikawa stood still for a moment, his gaze still fixed on the void left by her presence. His cheek pulsed, the burning spread under his skin like a burning brand. Slowly, he brought a hand to his face, as if the touch could somehow soften the blow. But it was useless.
A flash of anger crossed his gaze, his fingers clenched into a fist. “Oh, do not even think about it. Do not think you're getting off so easily.”
While Kahori cursed herself a hundred times for being such a fucking idiot, her legs were running as fast as she could. She had raised her kimono slightly to run faster, but dressed like that it was impossible to get away from him. She had noticed a few curious looks, but no one had called the police or actually done anything.
So she had found herself at a crossroads: running away close to someone at the risk that her gesture would pass as a staging of the actor, making the blame fall on her, or run away from everyone to avoid other glances and try to appease the situation in a secluded place? For all she knew, walking away from everyone like that could only get her into trouble. He could be a depraved man, a madman. He could simply have decided to kill her and let her body rot in a corner.
Kahori kept running without looking back, her kimono fluttering around her like an unruly shadow. Around every corner, every alley, she tried to find an escape route. However, her legs, agile and determined, betrayed the fatigue accumulated in that desperate race. Her legs were beginning to ache and her lungs were burning so badly that she was suffocating. She wasn't used to running so much, to such intense physical exertion. Her heart was beating so fast that she was afraid it would explode at any moment. But maybe it was better that way, wasn't it? Dying of a heart attack in the middle of the street, rather than being beated up, or worse, raped because of her shamelessness.
The street narrowed into a side alley, where the sunlight grew dimmer and the shadows longer. It was here, between walls of recent houses and old wooden signs of abandoned premises, that Kahori slowed down, almost for a moment suspended between the desire to flee and the urge to stop.
“ I can't run any more ,” she thought, as a knot formed in her throat.
On the other side of the alley, Oikawa finally caught up with her. Stopping a few metres away, he stepped forward with measured steps. “You're fast for being so puny,” he murmured with a hint of irritation. A drop of sweat beaded on his face, as the beautiful sun-kissed face slowly darkened, making him part of the shadow that surrounded them.
Kahori took a few steps back, then reality collapsed upon her. Inevitable as the passage of time. Her shoulders touched the cold wall. There were no escape routes. Perhaps if she had had wings, she could have flown over the wall and escaped. But she wasn't like that crow . She had no wings to escape.
Or perhaps, more simply, she hadn't yet learned how to use those wings .
“Of course you've got guts,” he whispered in a smug voice, full of irony. “I guess that was your wish all along, huh?” his voice had grown lower, deeper. He rested a hand on the wall, his open palm at the height of her head, as he approached her face, with the eyes of someone who had just put a bird in a cage. “Still, I must admit, your face was so beautiful during my performance .”
Kahori held her breath, her chest barely heaving as she felt his warmth envelop her, as unexpected and inescapable as a gust of summer wind. She could sense every tiny detail of his presence: the warm breath that brushed her lips, the slight tickle of his hair as he barely moved. He was a young man, his skin was glowing and so well groomed, he looked like something out of a typical story Yachi would have loved. A prince. A prince with a damned soul. His eyes so mischievous mingled with his amused and somewhat annoyed grin.
Kiyoko had often compared geisha to a willow branch: so thin, flexible, impossible to break. But at that moment, as the air became too thick and the heartbeat too loud, Kahori felt that something inside her was dangerously close to breaking.
She clenched her fists, trying to anchor herself in the angry feeling that still burned in her stomach. "You," she spat out, her voice barely trembling, "you don't know anything."
Oikawa bent his head to the side, studying her with that vaguely amused air that never seemed to leave him completely. The wisps of his hair swayed with the movement, and for a moment Kahori found herself cursing the natural way he managed to destabilise her.
Then he moved.
He moved forward slightly, with the slowness of someone who knows he is in full control of the situation. He touched her cheek with his, with a gesture almost imperceptible, sliding against hers cheek in a contact as ephemeral as it was burning.
Kahori felt a shiver run down her spine.
Then, in a barely audible whisper, his velvety voice spreading straight into her soul, Oikawa murmured in her ear, “What should I know?”
“You act like you understand, but you don’t. You never had to walk this path ,” she growled, her chest rising and falling in fear, anger, anxiety. It wasn't the first time she had dealt with a man so close to her. But never before had she felt so bewildered. That wasn't indifference. It was fear, but also excitement .
They stood there for a few seconds, trapped in a tension-filled silence. When he, with an almost imperceptible sigh, pulled away himself, he began to observe her for the first time without all those layers of make-up and pretence. At that moment, every detail of Kahori appeared vivid and raw to him: her wide-open eyes, mirrors of a sincere anger and at the same time veiled by a subtle fear; her lips that, although open, hid an unsuspected fragility. She was visibly angry but, at the same time, she was scared. Scared of him.
He found her incredibly beautiful, a beauty that could have driven him to do anything at that moment. Yet something inside him, a voice deeper than his wounded pride, held him back. Although he was a bit arrogant and definitely an asshole in some respects, he wasn't such a bastard as to inflict any more suffering. Her eyes spoke for themselves.
As he pulled away, his gaze lingered for a moment on her lips. It was only a moment, a fragment of time removed from reality, yet enough to make her cheeks flush. Kahori felt foolish for that reaction, for that slight tremor that had run down her back, but she couldn't look away, not even when he took a step back, never ceasing to look at her.
The silence between them was so thick that it was tangible. So he turned, his stride confident, toward the alleyway exit. Yet in those steady, calculated steps, Kahori could sense something: uncertainty .
The air outside seemed colder, harsher. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he found himself face to face with Iwaizumi. His friend stared at him with his arms crossed and an expression that screamed frustration. He didn't even give him time to open his mouth before exploding, “Where the fuck have you been?!”
And it was at that precise moment that Iwaizumi saw her.
From the darkness of the alley, Kahori emerged with uncertain steps. Her gaze was downcast, her breathing still irregular. She lifted her eyes just enough to meet Iwaizumi's, but instead of stopping or saying anything, she turned away.
She didn't stop.
She didn't look back.
Oikawa followed her figure with his eyes until he saw her disappear around the corner of a side street. For a moment, the only thing he could see was a piece of her kimono fluttering behind the wall, like the last fragment of a dream fading with the dawn.
“YOU!” hissed his friend, punching him in the shoulder. “What the fuck were you doing with her? I know you are an idiot, but NOT to this extent.”
“ Ouch! ” whimpered Oikawa, touching his sore shoulder. What had he done wrong that day to find his cheek and shoulder looking like that? Oh, yeah, because he was an asshole. “It's not what you're thinking,” he tried to justify himself.
“Nothing to do with the fact that she's Wakatoshi's geisha, I suppose,” he pointed out, crossing his arms. “Are you doing this out of spite? As if you're the only one bothered by this situation. Fuck . But neither Kuroo nor I are going to harass his geisha. Do you know you'll get her in more trouble than you?”
Oikawa bit his lip, letting the metallic taste of blood take him back to reality. To tell the truth, he didn't know why he had acted that way either. Perhaps it was because he found it unbearable that Wakatoshi could afford such things so naturally, with that predestined air that never seemed to waver.
Maybe he really was envious.
Or perhaps – and this was the most repulsive part – he had tried to take something that wasn’t his with the same arrogance and brazenness with which, much to his dismay, he found himself forced to rely on Wakatoshi to keep things afloat. A sort of bitter ‘ fair exchange ’.
“Tooru Oikawa,” he punctuated his name, “what were you doing with her?”
Oikawa sighed. “Believe me Iwa-chan, I didn't lay a finger on her,” he finally relented, “rather, she was the one who slapped me.”
“YOU-” he snotted, hitting him again, this time on the head.
“Iwa-chan!” he whimpered again. “Are you all gonna stop hitting me at some point today???” He raised his hands in surrender, “I swear, she slapped me...because I said something uncool. I didn't touch her, really.”
“You must have said some perverted shit to her,” he spat, still pissed off as a beast at his friend's reckless attitude.
Oikawa thought about it for a few moments. “Maybe t elling her something perverted would have hurt less ,” he admitted sadly.
Notes:
I told you I would play on some stereotypical canon characters to emphasise certain personality traits for the purposes of the plot. It's just a different plot from the original, so I simply wanted to do that. I hope you're not too offended (but I don't think so, come on, I've written no less than two fanfics where Oikawa is really a pudding, so allow me those things x°D).
"Kiku" means “Chrysanthemum”: Symbol of struggle and battle. The red chrysanthemum is associated with perseverance and courage in difficult situations. In Eastern cultures, especially in Japan, the chrysanthemum is considered a symbol of honor and strength, a flower that celebrates resistance during battles.
Chapter 4: Torikabuto 鳥兜
Summary:
Kahori and Wakatoshi find themselves discussing about Kabuki and, after a while, Kahori finds herself with him at a rehearsal of the theatre company.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Only the flickering light from a candle on a small table could illuminate the pitch-black room. In addition to the rich scent of wood and the subtle hint of powder clinging to Kahori's dress collar, the air was filled with the aroma of roasted food, a remnant of the dinner that had been served downstairs.
Sitting with her legs folded beneath her, Kahori was tapping her fingers against the small wooden table, her gaze lost in the void. The silence was heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of light footsteps in the corridor.
It had been a really hard day. When Yachi had returned home together with Hinata, the okasan had learned that Kahori had stayed at the Kyoto centre without real permission from her. Not that she doubted Yachi's trust, but between her and Hinata she could imagine how things had gone. Neither of them had been able to disguise the fact that Kahori had stayed there without their okasan's consent. And her okasan had taken her initiative really badly.
In addition to that punishment, there was also the annoyance she had felt with that kabuki actor, which she had dragged around with her all day. That was tangible proof that words and attitudes, sometimes, hurt more than a slap. He hadn't touched her, and Kahori mentally thanked him for not being a perverted fool. But all that mess had turned her upside down.
She just wanted to go to sleep and leave it all behind.
The sliding door opened slowly, revealing Yachi's hesitant face. “Kahori…” she whispered, sliding a small bundle of cloth onto Kahori's lap. “Tsuru gave me this. That's all I was able to bring you.”
Kahori lowered her gaze to the carefully wrapped rice ball. A modest offering, but in their world, a gift laden with meaning. She raised an eyebrow, hinting at a crooked smile. “What a spirit of sacrifice, Yachi,” she murmured, taking the rice ball gently between her fingers. “Aren't you afraid that okasan will find out?”
Yachi bit her lip. She knew it well: being caught with that food hidden away would have meant punishment for her too. But the thought that Kahori had been left without dinner because of her, tightened her chest in a grip of guilt.
“I couldn't leave you like this,” she replied softly. “It's my fault if…”
“Don't be silly”. Kahori split a piece of rice between her fingers and brought it to her lips with an almost listless air. With all the mess that had happened that day, she lost her hunger. She could only hope that no one had seen her, that no one would go to her okasan and spill the beans on what had happened. Because Kahori had managed to get away with a series of small lies, carefully omitting the fact that she had been bickering with a kabuki actor in a dark and run-down alley in Kyoto.
She chewed carefully, then shifted her gaze to Yachi, who stared at her with those large, transparent eyes, full of questions never asked.
“Why did you do that?” asked Yachi finally, clinging to the folds of her kimono. “I... you are the first one who doesn't believe in love, who doesn't seek it. Why did you let me talk to him?”
Kahori tilted her head, observing her with an enigmatic smile. “Love has many forms, Yachi,” she replied in a flat voice, without emphasis. “I simply decided to do something for you. To make you feel good, at least for a little while.”
She paused, turning the rice ball over in her fingers. Then she shook her head softly, a flash of irony in her gaze.
“ Even if it means deluding yourself .”
Yachi opened her lips wide slightly, but couldn't come up with an answer. There was something cruel in Kahori's words, yet also something deeply honest.
“But besides,” Kahori resumed, lowering her gaze to the rice ball, “your brain had already fucked itself into believing your fantasies. Might as well make them a little more concrete, right? At least you can savour something so elusive that way.”
The silence between them grew longer, confused, like the smoke of a cigarette dispersing unhurriedly through the air. Yachi lowered her head, clutching her shoulders. Kahori brought another piece of rice to her lips, while the candle flame continued to flicker, as if reflecting the instability of that moment.
❀ ❀ ❀
The delicate aroma of Gyokuro tea filled the Ochaya room. The room was silent, enveloped in that suspended atmosphere that preceded every important conversation. Kahori sat elegantly, her blue-coloured kimono slipping over her shoulders as naturally as the silk that made it up. Wakatoshi, on the other side of the polished table, watched her with his usual impassive gaze, but not without a certain intensity.
The evening had been very special. The situation was indeed strange, since their evening had started almost in silence, with him eating while Kahori merely played and sang. Yet that evening he had expressly requested her. Although Kahori had another client that evening, Wakatoshi had cared enough to pay her okasan handsomely, who had invented a lie to cancel the appointment with the first client in order to devote Kahori only to Wakatoshi.
“Kahori,” he exclaimed in his low, controlled tone, breaking the silence. “I would like to pick up the conversation from the other night.”
Kahori looked up, stopped the vibration of the strings with one hand and allowed herself a few seconds to assess the situation. Then she got up, sat down next to him and poured him some more green tea. Wakatoshi wasn't a man who spoke at random, nor did he give his time to empty words. He spoke very little with Kahori and she had sensed that he hated people who talked too much or made too much noise.
“The financing of the Kabuki theatre is a necessary investment to continue the performance of Yukimura Sanada,” he continued, keeping his back straight, as if even in a moment of apparent relaxation his bearing should reflect his rigour. “But some staging in the theatre seems excessively modern to me. Tradition is at the heart of this art form, and I fear that changing it too much can rob it of its essence.”
Kahori slowly swirled the cup in her hands, letting the heat spread into her palms before responding.
Unlike many other geisha, like her sister Kiyoko for example, Kahori had never been to see a Kabuki performance until a few weeks ago. She had learned a lot about the traditions, the stories told, the costumes and even the make-up. Because she couldn't appear uninformed, not when one of her customers was so obsessed with Kabuki. It wouldn't have been professional. She wasn't just an artist, sometimes clients also went to geisha to discuss, to get different perspectives. Often the clients just wanted to have fun, to get away from the worries of work or family. Other times, however, they simply wanted to vent, to find comfort in someone who, more often than not, would tell them exactly what they wanted to hear.
But not this time. Because if he was asking her opinion, then he would want to know the truth.
“I understand your concerns, Wakatoshi-sama,” she admitted with a slight smile. “And it is right to protect tradition. Tell me, how many times have you seen the story of Sanada Yukimura performed?”
He remained silent for a moment, reflecting. “Countless times. It's a classic.”
Kahori nodded, bringing the cup to her lips gracefully. “And don't you think that, however magnificent it is, it can become predictable? The audience knows every line, every gesture. Isn't there a risk of turning a legend into a mere performance, devoid of life?”
Wakatoshi stared at the steam rising from his cup, his eyes filled with careful reflection. “Repetition is what makes it eternal,” he finally replied. “Changing it would be to distort it.”
Kahori found that discussion rather strange, but not unpleasant. It was the first time Wakatoshi was specifically asking her to talk to him, to let him know her opinion. And the urge to pour out her dislike for Oikawa had repeatedly opened a crack in her mind. Kahori didn't believe that her words could influence Wakatoshi's thinking. However, she also didn't think it was right not to say what she really thought.
Kahori tilted her head. “What if, instead, you changed how you tell the story? Not its core, but the point of view”. She paused briefly, letting her words slip through the air like notes on a koto. “For example, why not show the fall of Osaka through the eyes of a minor character? A private soldier, or perhaps a woman who saw her fate tied to Yukimura's. This wouldn’t betray the story, but enrich it.”
Wakatoshi remained silent. Very few people could say they had seen him hesitate, but at that moment Kahori noticed a slight tinge of uncertainty in his gaze. He wasn't a man who changed his mind easily, and yet, his words seemed to have found a gap in his granitic conviction.
“A different perspective might make the experience more engaging…” he finally conceded. “But the main message must not be altered. The glory and honour of Yukimura cannot be obscured.”
Kahori smiled, gently placing the cup on the coffee table. “And it won't be. It would be like looking at the same moon reflected in different water. Its light doesn't change, but the image becomes new.”
Wakatoshi barely lowered his chin, a hint of a smile, rare, imperceptible, brushed his lips. “You may have wondered why my invitations.”
Kahori chuckled, then said in a mellifluous voice: “Why should I? I suppose a man like you knows what he wants. These aren't questions I think are appropriate to ask to myself,” she lied.
Wakatoshi remained silent, his fingers brushing the rim of the cup with measured slowness, as if he were pondering what to say. The slight smile he had hinted at vanished into thin air, replaced by a neutral, almost pensive expression. “Evidently, yes,” he conceded finally. “Still, not everyone chooses with the same clarity.”
Kahori sighed imperceptibly, her lips still curved in a gentle smile, but her eyes betrayed nothing. “Clarity is a luxury for few,” she replied. “Not everyone can afford to know exactly what they want.”
“Knowing what one wants is not a luxury. It is a responsibility,” he corrected her.
Kahori lowered her gaze for a moment, observing the delicate reflection of herself in the cup. Then, looking at him again, she added in a lighter tone: “People don’t always choose: sometimes, they are chosen.”
Wakatoshi didn't answer immediately. His amber eyes stared at her with an intensity that left no room for misunderstanding. There was no contempt in that gaze, no superiority. There was only awareness. “Do you think you never choose?” he asked finally, in his low, unwavering voice.
“I have always believed that my will was less important than others',” she replied, with studied calm. “After all, a geisha's job is not to desire, but to please.”
Something shifted in Wakatoshi's gaze, as if a hidden detail had just come to light. “What if the client wants to know what you think?”
Kahori barely lowered her eyelashes, her smile becoming thinner, almost a shadow. “Then,” she murmured in a gentle tone, “you should be ready to listen to an honest answer.”
Kahori was deliberately ambiguous, indeed, a good part of the speech had been a small lie. She had been chosen by Wakatoshi, and all she had done was accept it. Because she simply had no other choice not to accept. She could run away alone without money, or she could reject Wakatoshi and hope for a danna she truly loved, though that might never happen. But perhaps this would never have happened and she would have ended up being forever bound to the okiya. A part of her could have chosen not to accept Wakatoshi. She had not simply surrendered to his choice. She had chosen to follow that path, but only because it was the best way to run away. She had had a choice, but it wasn't a deliberate choice. It was a choice of convenience. Her situation was very different from Wakatoshi's. But maybe she couldn't blame him, maybe it was really hard to put himself in her shoes.
Kahori's response had given him something to think about and this surprised him more than expected. He had always known what he wanted in life. But now, for the first time, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the truth. Not now, at least.
❀ ❀ ❀
The days had passed quickly, as well as the evenings Kahori had had to work. After the last evening with Wakatoshi, the man had decided to sponsor Kuroo's theatre company, as long as they made changes to the script. Kahori had imagined that Wakatoshi wouldn’t change his mind about the theatre after their talk. It was as if he was interested in the thought of her, but still unwilling to change his mind. In the end, he always did what he wanted.
On Kahori's side, the young woman hated to admit that their initial interpretation of Sanada Yukimura's play was much more compelling than the one Wakatoshi wanted. But she didn't really care about the fate of that theatre company. Not after the actor Oikawa had said those things to her.
Kahori had seen a lot in her life, but that didn't mean she was used to having the reality of her life thrown in her face. With that nastiness, with that damned arrogance. By whom then? By someone who was in a slightly better condition than her. And the idea of seeing Oikawa's irritating smile again and again only reminded her of what he thought about her. She didn't like such stupid games, nor did she like revenge. However, this didn't mean that Kahori should always keep quiet. On the contrary. She would make her dislike at seeing his face become a mutual feeling.
That unusual morning, Wakatoshi had decided that she would accompany him to see the theatre company rehearse. Because Wakatoshi had decided to invest in them and this meant that his name would appear in that representation. Consequently, things were now to unfold according to his directives. And something inside him told him he should go and visit that group of troublemakers. Just to make sure that everything was proceeding according to his will.
The sliding doors of the rehearsal room opened with a slight creak, interrupting for a moment the rhythmic sounds of clashing wooden swords. Kuroo barely lifted his gaze, a sly smile hinted on his lips.
“Oya? Oya? Wakatoshi-san and his refined geisha honour our humble theatre”. His voice vibrated with irony and courtesy mixed with skill.
Wakatoshi didn't answer immediately. He entered with ease, without haste but with a presence that seemed to occupy the entire room. "It has been a decision made at the last minute," he replied. "Is that a problem?"
“Oh? No problem,” Kuroo hummed, “he's always welcome!”
At her side, Kahori walked gracefully, her fan closed between her tapering fingers, her gaze serene, yet alert to catch every detail of the scene before her. The theatre employees moved like so many little ants, fast, frantic. From time to time they would glance towards Wakatoshi, bow to greet him, then run away. Someone turned to greet her as well, and Kahori responded with a veiled smile, bowing her head slightly in a formal but hasty greeting. She could have sworn she had even seen someone run into a wooden beam after running past and seen her ‘shyly’ smile.
But soon attention turned to two figures, still too intent on their work to notice who had arrived. In the centre of the room, Oikawa was moving under Iwaizumi's guidance. The dull sound of wood hitting the floor echoed through the air as Iwaizumi moved rapidly his sword against the actor's. Oikawa responded with a fluid movement, twisting his wrist to deflect the blow with innate elegance, his stage kimono moving like a wave around him.
Kahori lowered her chin slightly, watching Iwaizumi's movements with sincere interest. Each gesture was precise, calculated, but at the same time natural, as if the fight was a dance he knew all too well. And then, there was Oikawa, whose theatrical grace seemed almost irritating in its perfection. He seemed born to be the centre of attention, and yet, Kahori couldn't help but notice a slight tension in his shoulders after seeing Wakatoshi's figure out of the corner of his eye.
“Still too stiff on your legs, Oikawa!” blurted Iwaizumi, lowering his wooden sword with a grimace. “If you were a true samurai, you'd be dead by now.”
“If I were a real samurai, I would make my opponent surrender before even drawing his sword,” Oikawa chuckled, straightening up as he wiped his sweat with his wrist.
Only then did his gaze rest on Kahori. It lasted no more than a blink, but it was enough for Kahori to recognise something unexpressed in his gaze, a hint that oscillated between amused and irritated.
“Charming, but imperfect ,” she muttered, moving her lips in a fluid movement slow enough to be legible even without hearing the words. Then she moved her fan in front of her mouth, while her eyes looked at him without blinking.
Oikawa slightly half-closed his eyes, with a tugged smile. “Oh? You are an expert on Kabuki, huh? What a resourceful woman,” he sneered at her, displaying a smile so fake that even the walls would have recognised it. “Just when you think you know a person, that person surprises you by revealing...another side of itself,” He hummed, moving a hand in front of him as if he were playing a part.
“A good actor knows how to turn words into lethal blows, but there is a difference between interpreting a warrior and actually being one ,” Kahori replied in a velvety voice, tilting her head slightly to the side with calculated innocence. Their game of barbs and veiled jokes seemed to have become routine.
Oikawa, without losing his theatrical tone, brought a hand to his chin, pretending to reflect. “Sanada Yukimura fought with honour, but even he knew that a well-struck blow can come from those you least expect. Sometimes, even a smile can conceal a poisoned weap-.”
But before Oikawa could finish his sentence, Iwaizumi threw the wooden sword straight behind his knee, leaving Oikawa as bewildered as he was in pain. “IWA-CHAN! What's wrong with you???”
Iwaizumi leaned closer to his friend, just enough to whisper something only he could hear. “Have you completely lost your mind? What the fuck is this unhealthy obsession with that woman?”
“Obsession? I'm not obsessed ,” he tried to justify himself, “she has started it!”
Iwaizumi threw another well-aimed blow at him. “No, asshole, you have started it.”
When the last note died away in the air and silence resumed its place within the theatre walls, Wakatoshi turned with his usual calm towards Kahori. His gaze was unflappable, as if everything he had just heard had been a mere detail to be filed away among the day's events.
“I need to discuss some matters with Kuroo. It will be quite a long and technical conversation, so it may not be of interest to you”. He paused briefly, letting his unspoken offer take shape in the air. “If you wish, you can take the opportunity to explore the theatre.”
She nodded, taking the opportunity to explore the hidden corners of that place. Being in contact with the theatre and the people who worked there, she had begun to take a veiled interest in the plays. She had informed herself out of pure professional need, but in the end she had managed to become more passionate than she should have been. Moreover, and this was no small thing, she had been given permission, the luxury, of being able to roam the theatre undisturbed without having to follow Wakatoshi like a bloodhound. It would have been stupid not to take advantage of it.
Kahori had assumed that Oikawa had already disappeared, probably dragging Iwaizumi along with him in some frivolous conversation or one of his usual tantrums.
Yet, she was wrong.
As she walked through a narrow passage behind the stage, where the wood planks creaked faintly under her footsteps and dim lights cast long shadows on the walls, a familiar voice broke the silence behind her, soft and imbued with cheeky sarcasm.
“You are so deliciously turd ,” Oikawa murmured, with the studied slowness of someone who wants to savour every syllable, every nuance of meaning.
The echo of his words intertwined with the rarefied atmosphere of the corridor, creeping in like a mischievous whisper that grazed the back of her head before she could even turn to look at him.
Kahori turned slowly, finding herself face to face with Oikawa. He leaned casually against a wooden pillar, but the mischievous flicker in his eyes betrayed the true intent of his presence.
“I find your attention a bit insistent, are you by any chance interested in anything in particular?” she asked, keeping a controlled tone. “Because, in case you are, I remind you that for my attention people pay. Oh, yeah, I don't think you can afford it .”
Oikawa chuckled, pulled away from the wooden column, looked around, just to make sure no one was watching them. Then he approached her, an irritating smile printed on his face: “Just satisfying a curiosity,” he replied. “Since it is strange to see you wandering around alone, I was wondering if the little bird in the cage had felt like flying away, or if it had simply already accepted its fate.”
Kahori looked at Oikawa with a tense smile, so tense that Kahori had to concentrate not to turn it into a grimace of disgust. Her gaze lingered for a moment on his relaxed posture, on the confidence with which he had approached her, as if certain that he was in control of the conversation. But was it really like that?
“Oh? I didn't know you were interested in my fate, Oikawa,” she replied with a faux naive air. “I thought you were just a selfish , asshole , arrogant , haughty actor,” she continued, emitting a giggle that sounded irritating even to Kahori herself.
“You-” he huffed, but before he could even do anything, a movement near the stage alerted them both. Kahori disappeared with such speed that only the faint rustle of her silk was left behind, while Oikawa remained motionless, his eyebrows still furrowed in irritation.
“Uhm,” a young boy, one of the youngest actors in their company, began to say, “Wakatoshi-sama wants to revise a part of the script, so you have to come on stage…”
Oikawa crossed his arms. “ Wakatoshi-sama ,” he hummed, imitating the same irritating honeyed voice as Kahori. And as he muttered to himself, he dragged his actor's ass onto the stage, ready to perform in front of someone he only wished he could throw his katana at his forehead.
And perhaps for the first time in her life, Kahori was actually happy to be there. Sitting comfortably next to Wakatoshi, she was watching the scene unfold before her. She couldn't explain why either. She really disliked that cheap actor, yet she loved the way he looked at her as she responded to his every dig with such a natural ease. And although they were two mere pawns in the hands of someone more powerful, on that small occasion, Kahori could say she... had a small advantage over him.
And, no, she wouldn't have missed it.
Oikawa was on stage, for several minutes he had been performing a scene that was basically a monologue by Yukimura Sanada. For the occasion, Wakatoshi had told them to dress him from top to bottom, because he “had to be as faithful as possible to how he would be staged”. Thus, the actor found himself wearing scarlet armour, decorated with the Sanata family mon, combined with a black hakama.
With a decisive gesture, Oikawa grasped the hilt of the katana, his movements designed to convey a sense of tension and solemnity. He drew the katana, his voice then full of determination, he declared: “ We are the fire that burns in the shadows, the bastion that does not collapse. It is not victory that defines us, but mutual loyalty. I will fight by your side until my last breath! ”
There was silence, then all the members of the theatre company let out a brief round of applause. Kahori nodded slightly and hid her mouth behind her fan, concealing a smirk that was anything but reassuring.
His performance was really delightful. He was really good at acting, from the posture, to the look, to the intonation of his voice. Everything seemed perfect. So perfect that it seemed impossible to find anything wrong. But not for Kahori , who had studied like a fucking bitch the whole script, the whole story. Anything at all. And while the others had been captivated by Oikawa's prowess, Kahori didn't miss a detail.
She leaned her upper body slightly forward, then turned to look at Wakatoshi. She took the fan out of her mouth, so that her words would be heard by all. “An intense performance. Don’t you think so, Wakatoshi-sama? But... if I remember correctly, in this scene, Yukimura Sanada spoke of loyalty to his men before drawing his katana, not after. Or is my memory failing me? It would somewhat spoil the effect of the scene if he drew it first. Wouldn’t it?"
Wakatoshi nodded with a thoughtful expression, watching Oikawa carefully. “Indeed. It is crucial to abide by the script, Oikawa. Loyalty is the core of this scene, and must be emphasised at the right time.”
Kuroo chuckled softly: “You must excuse him,” he began to say, casting a quick glance at Oikawa, “someone must probably have given him the unedited script.”
Wakatoshi nodded, “Repeat the scene with the necessary corrections.”
The imperceptible movement of Oikawa's eyebrows made Kahori realise that he was really using every muscle in his body to restrain himself. The half-smile pulled, the slight twitch of his eye, the rigid posture. Every cell in Oikawa's body was exuding restlessness. “The whole scene?” he merely asked.
“Yes, the whole scene ,” confirmed Wakatoshi, crossing his legs.
Oikawa swallowed imperceptibly, cast a brief glance at Kahori, but she had already taken refuge behind her fan. He could imagine what she was hidden behind her fan: that fucking satisfy smirk.
Notes:
Torikabuto means “Aconite”: In the language of flowers and plants due to its high toxicity, it symbolises revenge and guilty love.
It is very difficult for me to write using Wakatoshi. He is not bad and I do not want this to be perceived. Some things are told from the point of view of Kahori, a woman who is in a very complicated social position. To explain it better: I believe that Wakatoshi is really struggling to see Kahori's perspective because it is very complex and different from ‘his world’. It is more of a genuine, naive misunderstanding.
I hope you are enjoying this somewhat ‘peculiar’ story. I always appreciate it when you comment or leave a kudos, so thanks in advance if you do <3.The discussion of kabuki with Wakatoshi and Kahori actually came about because I was inspired by a book I read. The book is set in this very context, during the Battle of Osaka, but seen from a different point of view =D. This story inspired me to make this speech. If you are interested in the name of the book, let me know :3.
Chapter 5: Mokuren 木蘭
Summary:
Kahori finds herself entertaining a... very special customer.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Kahori had always been aware that subtle game, that precarious balance between her and the actor Oikawa, was dangerous ground to walk on. A dance of sharp glances and words wrapped in velvet, but soaked in thorns. Yet, in recent times, something had changed. Perhaps out of boredom, perhaps out of sheer defiance, Kahori had begun to find a certain pleasure in provoking him, in pulling that tightrope between them until his resistance was tested.
And so, perhaps for the sheer sake of seeing how far he could go, Kahori had decided not to give him a chance. To take it lightly, convincing herselves that sooner or later Oikawa would get tired of it, that he would accept her presence as an unavoidable nuisance and that, without too many words, they would continue to orbit around the same figure, Wakatoshi, without giving any more weight to those skirmishes.
But she underestimated how bad things could get .
She had underrated Oikawa's stubbornness, his unbreakable will never to leave anything unresolved. She had forgotten his pride, the same pride that wouldn't allow him to let a provocation go unanswered. And, more than anything else, she hadn't foreseen his inclination towards revenge.
And so it was that, against all odds, she found herself in a teahouse not far from Gion, sitting right in front of him .
He had requested Kahori for one evening. And her okasan, unaware of the dynamics underneath, had accepted without being asked twice. Because, in fact, Wakatoshi wasn't her danna and Kahori wasn't anyone's exclusive. Well, maybe, considering how much Wakatoshi could pay, if only he had wanted to, he could have made kahori his personal exclusive. But she had no plans for that evening and her okasan had thrown her into the arms of this phantom man, without asking why.
Kahori had been led to the teahouse as requested, with no idea of who she was going to entertain that evening. It was just another working night, another client to be indulged with grace and measured words. But the sentence uttered by the okasan, in that mellifluous tone that always concealed something more, had begun to instill a subtle doubt in her.
“It was a specific request from your client.”
And now, as the sliding doors closed behind her, Kahori found herself faced with a reality quite different from what she had imagined.
Oikawa was already there, sitting with an overly relaxed composure on a silk cushion, his arms resting on the low table, his face framed by his hands. His gaze was a tightrope between provocation and complacency, a mischievous flash dancing in his eyes. The satisfaction he exuded was almost suffocating, so obvious that it felt like an invisible vice around her throat.
He wore a blue male kimono, held together by a white obi and a hakama of the same colour as the kimono. He really looked good in that colour. In fact, he had always had this ability to look good in any outfit. No matter what outfit he wore, he knew how to wear it perfectly. If only he hadn't had that cheeky smile to spoil everything at that moment...
“So I wouldn't be able to afford something like that ,” he exclaimed slowly, letting each word be wrapped in a studied, stinging intonation as he barely half-closed his eyes.
Kahori felt a tremor of frustration chain her nerves. Their game, that subtle skirmish of jokes and silences, had ended the very moment she had crossed the threshold of that room. Because now, for that evening, she was no longer just Kahori. She was his geisha . And the noose she had felt tightening around her throat for some time had suddenly become tighter, because now it was Oikawa who was holding the end of it between his fingers.
That bastard.
He had played dirty. And no matter how hard she tried to maintain an impassive expression, she knew he was already savouring his little victory.
Not being exclusive to Wakatoshi, Kahori could be asked by other customers. However, it could have been within her power to refuse the offer. But, her okasan would never, ever allow her to refuse a client. Even though it was true that bastard Oikawa had played in a way that kept him from being revealed, just so he could make an entrance that was nothing short of fucking brilliant—theatrical, unexpected, like a plot twist.
And Kahori couldn't even hide behind the figure of Wakatoshi. Because he wasn't his danna yet, he hadn't asked the okasan not to accept any more clients. They were compliant with rules. He was compliant with rules .
She simply didn't count on him spending all that money just to spite her.
Kahori chuckled falsely, crouched down next to him, placed the sake cup on the table and poured some liquor into it: “Come on, Oikawa, you didn't really take that sentence as a personal affront?” she asked, in a sickening tone.
Oikawa pretended to think about it, even though he already knew in his head that he wouldn't answer her. “I don't like that attitude. Just Oikawa?” He began to say, absent-mindedly looking at his fingernails on one hand.
Kahori wanted with all her might to roll her eyes, to spill hot sake on him, to insult him. But she decided to use the kindness card. At least as long as she could bear it. “Is Oikawa- san a suffix you consider more suitable?”
Oikawa slowly ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head to the side as he pretended to consider his proposal. The smile that curved his lips set off a warning alarm in Kahori's head. “I used to think you were more perceptive,” he hummed. “ Let's try again .”
Kahori felt every muscle in her body stiffen. It had to be a joke. She knew he was just trying to test her, to play with the boundaries she had imposed between them. But if there was one thing she had learnt in her job, it was that she should never let the client perceive a real reaction. So she lowered her eyelashes with a barely-there smile and nodded gracefully.
“As you wish, Oikawa-sama ,” she replied, her voice as sweet as poisoned honey, pouring him some more sake.
Oikawa laughed, bringing the cup to his lips. “Good girl Hori-chan. I like when you're clever. Let's see if you can also entertain me.... Sing something for me.”
Kahori tightened her fingers around the bottle of sake. She would rather have bitten her tongue than sing to him. Still, she made a slight bow and began humming a traditional melody, her voice quiet and melodious, although behind the sweetness of the melody lurked coldness.
Oikawa listened for a few moments, drumming his fingers on the coffee table, then leaned forward, interrupting her with a theatrical gesture. “No, no, no. Too boring! I haven't paid that much to hear something my grandmother could sing to me. Something different, Hori-chan. Something you would never dare to sing in front of everyone.”
Kahori looked up at him, feeling the blood boiling in her veins. He was really trying to corner her. But if Oikawa thought he could humiliate her so easily, he was sorely mistaken.
She settled more comfortably on the pillow and half-closed her eyes, letting the weight of tension slide off her shoulders. The melody she sang was different, lower, almost a whisper at first. It wasn't a song often heard in geisha districts, but a folk ballad that circulated among dock workers, among sailors toasting before setting sail for distant lands.
Her voice became more confident, with a rhythm that seemed to sway like the sea, and yet there was something hypnotic in the way she let the words wash over her. It was a song of longing and freedom, of dreams crashing and rebuilding on the waves, and her voice filled it with new, deep nuances. An old song, which she had often heard sung when she still lived with her family. Such a beautiful melody, which transported her so far back in time that it became an intimate, personal, private song.
Oikawa watched with an amused twinkle in his eye, but as Kahori continued, his expression changed. The smile faded, replaced by a silent, almost fascinated curiosity.
When the last note faded into the air, there was a moment of silence. Then Oikawa burst out laughing, clapping a hand on the coffee table. “I must say you surprised me, Hori-chan. For the first time, you sang with soul .”
She lowered her gaze with mock modesty. But Oikawa wasn't the type to give in so easily. “Now do me a favour, Hori-chan. Tell me that I am the most charming man you have ever met.”
Kahori barely held back a sigh, her hands still delicate on the tray in front of her. Oikawa was really pushing the game beyond all limits.
With the grace of an experienced geisha, she brought her face closer to his, shortening the distance between them just enough to make him feel defensive. Her lips curved into an enigmatic smile, and in a whisper: “Oikawa-sama, you are the most charming man I have ever met,” she paused for a moment, letting him savour her words before concluding, with a gleam of amusement in her eyes, “ in this room .”
Oikawa blinked, then laughed again, amused. “I was wondering when the real you would come out.”
Kahori turned away from him, barely sighing. “Oikawa-sama, you're the one who paid. You decide which part of me I have to show.”
Oikawa clicked his tongue. “Still, I didn't ask you to show me the real you. But you did anyway,” he retorted, catching the small flaw in Kahori's speech. “I wonder if you're like that with him too.”
Kahori opened her eyes wide, as if something behind all the limitations she was imposing on herself suddenly broke. Her voice echoed in the room even before consciousness told her to stop.
“Ah! Is Wakatoshi the problem? You're completely out of your mind,” she spat, “how much debt did you go into for this? To prove what? That you are now superior to me? That you can afford the same things as him? Do you really like it when a woman is so damn submissive to you? It seems so easy to control someone who isn't in a position to do so. You know nothing about what I have to do.”
Kahori paused to catch her breath, then bit her lip. It had been enough to even vaguely mention Wakatoshi to set her off. To make her wrong.
Oikawa opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. For a very brief moment, behind that white mask, he saw a glimmer in Kahori's eyes that left him ‘troubled’. He had always been accustomed to being acclaimed, to being surrounded by many beautiful women, perhaps deluded that he might even be rich. But none had ever looked at him with contempt. His fame as a Kabuki actor had always kept him away from all those paid pleasures. He didn't need to go there to find a woman. He hadn't needed to understand that world even as a joke.
But only then did he seem to understand what was hidden behind all those layers of silk, those lips as red as roses, those gentle and delicate gestures.
And for a moment, he really felt like shit. Because the attitude she had with Wakatoshi was a completely different circumstance, whereas with him she felt she didn't have the chains to put her head down. And not because she felt he was any less worthy.
In the end, the two of them were more alike than he imagined. And he had only annoyed her because he was a fucking child. Just because he had put his pride and animosity for Wakatoshi in front of him. However, both he and she needed the same man to move forward. And this could only make them closer.
He certainly had a more comfortable life. Indeed, Kuroo already had a plan B in place if the first solution, which was the simplest, failed. Sure, he didn't have a social status like Ushiwaka's, but he could afford to enjoy life.
Oikawa lowered his gaze to his own hands, watching the fingers move uncertainty along the edge of the kimono's sleeve. The silk fabric slipped under the nervous touch, smoothed over and over again as if the simple gesture could help him clear his thoughts. But the truth was that, for the first time in who knows how long, he didn't know what to say. His usual contemptuous smile had disappeared, the ready jokes stuck in his throat. It seemed to him that every word he had used up to that moment had been empty, ridiculous, completely out of place in front of that gaze, so direct, so ruthlessly sincere.
“I'm sorry”. The words came out lower than he would have liked, almost a whisper. There was no trace of the usual lightness in his voice, nor the irony with which he masked everything he didn't want to face. And perhaps because of this, Kahori didn't bother to reply.
She remained silent, staring at him with an indecipherable expression. There was no anger in her eyes, nor that sharp defiance that often shone through when someone teased her too much. Just a quiet, enigmatic reserve. She wasn't giving him forgiveness, but neither was she refusing it. Which, perhaps, was even more destabilising.
She lowered her gaze for a moment, letting her slender fingers run over the edge of the lacquered tray in front of her. Then she lifted her face again, barely tilting her head. “So what?” She asked, in a tone that seemed to challenge him to give her a decent answer. “What do you want to do now?”
Oikawa met her gaze, but suddenly felt bereft of any certainty. It was rare that he didn't know his way around a conversation. The words usually came to him spontaneously, as if they danced on his lips without needing to think about them. But not this time. This time there was something different.
“The evening is not over yet, you have paid for this time. Unless you want the luxury of paying to be silent,” Kahori continued with a slight shrug, veiledly referring to the times when Wakatoshi wanted her presence only to sit in silence thinking about something else. Her voice was calm, almost disinterested, as if she was talking about a simple detail, an irrefutable fact. Then she added, without any hesitation: “And no, I won't sleep with you . I don't have to. If that's what you're thinking of doing.”
Oikawa looked at her, caught off guard.
“If that's what you want,” she continued in the same placid tone, “you can always go to a prostitute.”
The air suddenly seemed to grow heavier. Oikawa felt his chest tighten in an instinctive motion, as if those words had struck him something deep, something uncomfortable. He couldn't hide his surprise, and only realised it when he saw Kahori's eyebrow raise in an imperceptible nod of study.
“I never thought of such a thing,” he retorted immediately, too quickly, almost defensively.
Kahori's enigmatic smile barely curved, with no hint of pity. “Huh? Then you are one of the few,” she said with a cutting lightness, as if she had just noted an all too obvious fact.
Oikawa ran a hand through his hair, huffing softly. Why did he feel like he was losing control of the conversation? He was always the one leading the “game”, the one setting the pace and deciding how to spin things in his favour. Yet now, he felt like he was walking on slippery ground, not knowing where to put his feet. “I didn't come here for that.”
“So, for what?”
The question fell silent, hanging like a thread between them.
Oikawa stared at her, and for the first time realised he had no answer. What had he expected, exactly? Had it been a whim? A petty desire to prove something, to himself or to someone else? Or perhaps... was it something else again, something he didn't want to admit even to himself?
For the first time in his life, Oikawa Tooru felt lost.
“You,” he began to say, then looking away, “you have to do that too?”
Kahori raised an eyebrow. “That what?” she murmured, before realising what Oikawa was referring to. “Oh! Sleeping with clients? We don't have to do that, we sell our art, not our bodies. However, there are those among us who sleep with clients, even if they aren't their patrons. Thus some delude themselves that they can do these things with everyone, that they demand certain performances with everyone.”
Oikawa remained silent for a long moment, letting Kahori's words settle in his mind, one after the other, like small stones thrown into an all too quiet pond. He wasn't sure what he expected to hear, but her answer struck him in a way he couldn't explain. He lowered his gaze, watching the reflection of his figure in the cup of sake in front of him. In the distance he could hear the sound of the shamisen, as if summoning him from the mental torpor that was threatening to cloud his mind. And no, sake wasn't the cause.
The room, with its sliding walls of rice paper, suddenly seemed smaller, more stifling. “What about you?” he finally asked, his voice barely lower. “Have you ever thought about doing it?”
Kahori studied him for a moment, as if wanting to understand how far his curiosity went. Then she leaned forward slightly, her hands resting gracefully on her knees. “If I needed to do that,” she replied, with unflappable calm, “I probably would have.”
Oikawa suddenly lifted his gaze to her. He hadn't expected that answer. Not so direct. Not so free of shame or anger.
“But I never needed it”. Kahori ran a finger over the edge of the kimono's neck, as if to tidy it up, even though it was already perfect. “I always had enough requests for my company, for my art. I never had to choose that path. But some people had to even before they had a protector.”
Oikawa looked away with a barely perceptible grimace. He couldn't decide whether that answer relieved him or upset him more. “I don't know whether to admire you or feel even more like shit,” he admitted, letting out a joyless laugh.
Kahori barely smiled, but there was no amusement in her eyes. Only a strange, subtle understanding. “This is just the reality. Women do what they must to survive. And men delude themselves that they are the ones who decide .”
Oikawa didn't answer immediately. He simply looked at her, for the first time without the filter of arrogance or playfulness. He saw her for what she was: someone who knew the world far better than he ever had. And that somehow left him incredibly uncomfortable.
“And what do you want to do, then?” he finally asked, trying to get the conversation back on safer ground.
Kahori took a few seconds to observe him, it was the first time anyone had ever asked her what she wanted to do. People paid her to be entertained by her, not to ask her what she wanted to do. Perhaps, the question unsettled her more than she let on.
She gracefully reached for the sake jug and filled his glass. “Drink,” she ordered simply, handing it to him.
Oikawa raised an eyebrow, taking the small cup between his fingers. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Kahori merely smiled, a quiet, slightly enigmatic smile. “It means you have two options now,” she explained. “You can continue drinking and forget this conversation,” she paused, barely lowering her gaze. “Or, you can stay and deal with it.”
Oikawa looked at the sake in the cup he held between his fingers, as if he hoped that alcohol would give him an answer, a meaning to that conversation that seemed to get out of hand each time. He had thought of going there with a clear idea in mind, but the more he talked to Kahori, the more he realised how ignorant he was about that world . About her.
He took a sip, letting the warmth slide down his throat, before setting the cup down with an almost thoughtful gesture.
“Why him ?” he asked, without looking up. “Why is Wakatoshi so important to you?”
Kahori remained silent for a moment, watching him carefully. She seemed to be trying to comprehend whether that question was just yet another provocation or something more sincere.
“It isn't a question of personal prestige, nor of love,” she finally replied, as calmly as she had spoken up to that moment. “If he became my danna, things might become easier for me.”
Oikawa frowned, finally lifting his gaze to her. “A danna, huh?” he repeated, savouring the word as if it left a bitter aftertaste in his mouth.
Kahori nodded, gracefully adjusting the flap of her kimono, as if that conversation apparently carried no emotional weight for her. “A danna is a rich and powerful man who decides to take care of a geisha, such as buying her kimono, make-up, giving her gifts of any kind, all expenses that the okiya usually takes care of. If Wakatoshi became one, it could ease the expenses I have with the okiya. It would mean less debt, more chances to pay off my debt.”
“It sounds a bit like becoming your lover,” he concluded, with a forced smile. “It means you'll have to…”
Kahori didn't lower her gaze, she wasn't ashamed, she didn't flinch. She simply stood there, in front of him, with that impenetrable calmness of hers. “Yes, in that case, yes .”
The silence that followed was neither embarrassed nor heavy. It was an emptiness filled with subtext, unspoken thoughts. The man in front of her tried to read something in her gaze, perhaps a hesitation, the slightest sign of discomfort. But he found nothing. Only that subtle confidence, that silent pride that made it impossible to interpret her fully.
Kahori barely tilted her head, as if she wanted to give herself an extra moment to choose the right words. Then, as naturally as before, she resumed: “Can I ask you something?”
Oikawa raised an eyebrow, surprised: “Yes, of course.”
She nodded slowly, then said: “You spent your money to hear me talk about my life. Don't you think you threw it away a bit?”
Oikawa remained silent for a few moments, unsure of what to answer. Kahori's question, direct and devoid of any tone of challenge, caught him off guard more than anything else she had said that evening.
He looked at an indefinite spot on the tatami, his expression tense, the smile now fading from his lips. “Maybe,” he finally admitted, letting go a sigh. “This wasn't exactly what I had in mind when I decided to come here.”
Kahori tilted her head slightly to the side, watching him with watchful eyes. “And what did you have in mind?”
Oikawa ran a finger along the rim of the sake cup, avoiding looking directly at her. “I don't know either,” he said with a bitter laugh. “Maybe initially I just wanted to annoy you, but then I realised I just wanted to understand.”
“Understand what?” She insisted.
This time he lifted his gaze to her, scrutinising her face, her periwinkle eyes illuminated by artificial light. The vivid red of her lips, the shadow of her long eyelashes, the reflection of the silk that enveloped her body with an almost unnatural perfection. She was beautiful, like a work of art that someone had sculpted with expert hands and then enclosed in a glass case. Yet, behind that beauty was something elusive, something that made him feel small and ignorant. And, perhaps, it was exactly that something that he had understood. But he had had to figure it out by clashing with the harsh reality of her world.
“Maybe I just wanted to try to comprehend your world, but not in the most conventional way,” he finally replied, with a sincerity that surprised him.
Kahori blinked slowly, her smile barely noticeable. “And what have you realised?”
Oikawa let out another short, joyless laugh. “That I never understood a fucking thing.”
“Haven't you understood anything? Huh? Correct!” Kahori chuckled, the first real laugh she gave him that night. A low, soft laugh, like the sound of a light wind gliding through bamboo leaves. “Oh well, look on the bright side, maybe that's the first thought we have in common.”
Oikawa turned to stare at her with a mock pout, “Hey!” he whimpered, before bursting out laughing with her. “But, maybe you are right.”
Notes:
“Mokuren” means “Magnolia”: In China, the magnolia flower was the symbol of feminine beauty and sweetness. It represents respect and loyalty.
I wanted this to be the chapter where they got closer. I'm sorry if it all seems to have happened so “quickly”. I personally decided it would be a short fanfic, so I needed to focus the events. There will be another moment when the two get to talk in a more friendly manner. I hope you can enjoy it.
Chapter 6: Fuji 藤
Summary:
Iwaizumi scolds Oikawa and, together with Kuroo, they find out what Oikawa has been up to. But the handsome star of the theatre company doesn't give up and decides to do something stupid again.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Oikawa had spent the entire day in a state of latent irritation, an uncomfortable feeling that had stuck to him like an overly heavy kimono in the middle of summer. A feeling that twisted around him more and more like the branches of a wisteria in late spring. Every time he was reminded of Kahori's gaze —that unflappable calm, that subtle smile that always seemed to know something he ignored— he felt discomfort stir in his stomach.
He had paid to be with her. To talk to her. To hear her say things he didn't want to hear. And now he couldn't even explain why he had done that.
He had decided to do something stupid, because that's what it was. To spite her. Yes, even to show her that he could afford to ‘buy’ her time. But then the reality of Kahori's world had overwhelmed him and the joke had become something serious. Something he couldn't ignore or deny with a giggle or a phrase of mockery.
Part of him wanted to forget that speech. But the other part of him wanted to be able to talk to her again. But not as a client and geisha .
When he returned to the apartment he shared with Iwaizumi and Kuroo, evening had long since fallen. The small flat was lit only by the dim light of an oil lamp, and the scent of steamed rice mingled with the smell of a cigarette.
It had been a hard day, but he knew that he had deliberately delayed because his best friend had smelt something. He had smelled Oikawa's ‘bullshit’ . The night before, when he had returned home late, he had jumped into bed quieter than a ghost. Then he had spent the whole day practising the new script with such dedication that Iwaizumi had desisted from asking him anything.
But now he was back home. And both his housemates were waiting for him.
Iwaizumi was sitting at the table, intent on drinking sake, while Kuroo was lying carelessly on a futon, a book open on his lap. “Welcome back,” Iwaizumi commented, without looking up from his drink. “Where the hell were you last night?”
Oikawa froze for a moment, before taking off his winter haori, with calculated nonchalance. “Out for a ride.”
Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “A ride, huh?”
Kuroo yawned, without taking his eyes off the book. “A ride alone,” he began to say, before looking up to give him a mischievous smile, “or with someone else ?”
Oikawa snorted audibly, “Alone.”
“Mmmh,” Iwaizumi took another sip of sake, peering at him out of the corner of his eye. “Strange. You've been looking like you've seen a ghost all day.”
Oikawa curled his lips, annoyed. “I haven't seen any ghosts, Iwa-chan. But thank you for your concern,” he emphasises ironically.
Kuroo finally closed the book with a dry thud and turned to him, leaning on one elbow. “So what happened? Did you lose a bet? Did you gamble all your money at some wacky game?”
“No!” Blurted Oikawa, pulling back his hair in an annoyed gesture. He hadn't lost money gambling, true. But he had spent a lot of money in another way .
Iwaizumi stared at him for a few seconds, then shook his head. “You are hiding something. I've been watching you since last night. Don't take the piss out of me.”
“Iwa-chan, I'm not hiding anything,” he whimpered, on the verge of spilling the beans.
“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi's low, flat tone was a clear warning.
Oikawa sighed, letting himself fall onto a futon next to Kuroo. He ran a hand over his face, as if to wipe away the tiredness he felt on his shoulders. “Alright,” he finally admitted reluctantly. “I've been in a teahouse.”
Silence fell over them, heavy but vibrant, as if the air itself had been held back, waiting for a reaction. For a moment, everything remained suspended, time stretched in the uncertainty of what would come next. Then, suddenly, Kuroo burst out laughing. A loud, genuine laugh that forced him to lean forward slightly as a hand rested on his hip. He tried to speak, but the words died in his throat between laughs. He lifted a hand, as if to ask for a reprieve, as he tried to catch his breath.
“No, wait... wait a second,” he finally managed to say, his breath still broken with laughter. His eyes sparkled with incredulous amusement as he stared at Oikawa. “You... went... to a teahouse and paid a geisha... just to keep you company?!”
Oikawa immediately darkened, his expression twisted into an irritated pout. “Don't say it in that manner!”
“And in what other way should I say it?!” Kuroo laughed so loudly that he leaned forward, clapping a hand on the floor. “But listen to this! Have you fallen in love with a geisha, Oikawa? Is that why you emptied your pockets for some of her attention?”
Oikawa gnashed. “I haven't fallen in love with anyone!”
Iwaizumi, who had remained silent with his arms crossed until that moment, huffed and rubbed his temples. “Tell me you didn't throw all your savings into this nonsense.”
Oikawa avoided his gaze, averting his eyes with a tense, almost annoyed expression. The silence between them stretched on, until the other decided to interrupt him.
“ Tooru ,” he called him, his tone firm, devoid of hesitation.
Oikawa hesitated for a moment, his lips tightened into a thin line. Then, with a barely audible sigh, he decided to answer. “It was just an evening,” his voice was lower, almost as if he hoped that saying it at a lower volume would minimise the importance of the matter.
Iwaizumi narrowed his gaze: “For how long?”
Oikawa blinked, annoyed by the persistence of the questioning. “A few hours.”
The other didn't look away, implacable. “And how much did you pay?”
An expression of mild annoyance crossed Oikawa's face. He grimaced, slumping his shoulders as he scratched his neck in a listless gesture, as if hoping to shake off the subject along with the non-existent itch on his skin.
Iwaizumi closed his eyes for a long breath, trying to keep calm. “Tell me you're not a complete idiot.”
Kuroo laughed again, patting Oikawa on the shoulder. “Too late, Iwaizumi. Our prince over here has gotten himself well and truly fooled.”
Oikawa wriggled out of Kuroo's grip, growing more and more annoyed. “No one fooled me! I knew very well what I was doing.”
Kuroo ran a hand through his dishevelled hair, shaking his head with a crooked smile. “No, seriously, Oikawa, what the hell have you drunk to waste money on something like that?”
Oikawa turned sharply towards him, his face frowning.
“I mean,” Kuroo continued, deliberately ignoring his annoyed expression, “you have a list of women waiting for you outside every time you set foot on the street. Women of all ages whispering your name at every performance, married women who let you mean more than you need to... and instead of taking advantage of your kabuki actor fame, you're off to a teahouse to be plucked like a chicken?”
“That's not right!” protested Oikawa, crossing his arms. Irritation washed over him, as was that sense of frustration that seemed to dig into him. That conversation was cornering him, making him feel even more stupid. It was as if Kahori and his friends had decided to throw reality in his face, forcing him to admit something that even he couldn't fully comprehend yet.
But how could he explain to them that something from that evening had stayed with him? No matter how much he wanted to dismiss it as a whim, a mere experience to be forgotten, the thought continued to haunt him? The more he thought about it, the more he came to the conclusion that his time with Kahori had ignited something different inside him. Something hard to define, but impossible to ignore.
Kuroo carelessly let himself fall back onto the futon, hands crossed behind his head, and sneered with his usual amused air. “So what should it be like, genius?”
On the other side of the room, Iwaizumi had remained silent until that moment, his arms crossed in a closed, attentive gesture. Then he leaned forward slightly, scrutinizing Oikawa with narrowed eyes. “ Why now? ” he asked, his voice charged with an implication that Oikawa caught immediately. “Why this sudden interest in certain things ?”
Oikawa stiffened.
Iwaizumi barely tilted his head, as if he were slowly putting together the pieces of a puzzle. “You have always avoided that world,” he continued, in a tone that left no escape. “You said it wasn't for you. That you didn't understand those who got lost behind geisha. And then suddenly, overnight, you decide to spend a lot of money on it? It doesn't add up.”
Kuroo yawned dramatically, “Iwaizumi, so many complaints..." He shrugged, casting a complicit look at Oikawa. “Evidently he's not satisfied with all the women swirling around him like fireflies on a lantern.”
Oikawa gave him a glaring look. Was it possible that Kuroo was never on his side? Instead of helping him out of that situation, he was only throwing fuel on the fire.
Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “Ah, isn't it? Don't look at me like that.”
Oikawa bit the inside of his cheek, looking away.
Iwaizumi didn't miss that gesture. His eyes became even more alert, as if he were digging beyond the surface. “ Who was she ?” he asked, his voice lower, more focused.
Oikawa didn't reply. Not immediately, at least. The silence that followed wasn't casual, it wasn't empty. It was a thin but solid wall, a barrier he seemed to want to hold up with every fibre of his being.
“Oikawa!” A single name, spoken solidly, yet it was enough to upset him. Oikawa barely recoiled, almost imperceptibly, but Iwaizumi noticed. The annoyance was evident in the tension in his shoulders, in his clenching jaw, in the way his fingers twitched for a moment before relaxing again.
“Never mind,” he muttered finally, his voice lower, rougher, as if he hoped that cutting off the conversation would be enough to make it go away.
But Iwaizumi had no intention of letting it slip away so easily.
“OIKAWA!” he insisted, firmer this time. His voice wasn't just firmer, it was a call of authority, a command that accepted no retort.
“I told you it doesn't matter, Iwa-chan!” blurted Oikawa at last, his jaw clenched, his eyes stubbornly avoiding those of his friend.
Iwaizumi huffed, running a hand over the back of his head in an exasperated gesture. “If you don't want to say it, that means I'll convince you by force.”
Oikawa straightened up instinctively, ready to run away from his friend. “You cannot force me to-”
He didn't even have time to finish the sentence when he suddenly found himself thrown backwards. The impact with the tatami was sharp, his breath caught in his lungs for an instant and, before he could recover, his arm was locked behind his back in a firm grip. Iwaizumi's grip left no escape.
“You better blurt out the truth, before I get mad,” his friend suggested, his tone almost bored, as if it were an inevitable routine.
“Tsk!” Oikawa struggled, but he was fully aware that no matter how much he fidgeted, he would never be able to break free from Iwaizumi's steely grip. “Kuroo, Why won't you ever lend me a hand!”
Kuroo stared at them with a mischievous grin, his eyes half-closed in amusement. He settled more comfortably on the futon, resting his head on one hand, as if he were the spectator of an unmissable show. “Because it's fun,” he merely said, not even trying to hide how much he was enjoying the scene.
“I'm waiting,” Iwaizumi hissed, tightening his grip even more.
Oikawa clenched his jaw, his pulse racing with anger. Every muscle in his body was tense, forced into that humiliating position. “Iwa-chan, you are unfair,” he whimpered, trying to regain a modicum of dignity. “I'm not that good at martial arts…”
“The NAME,” roared Iwaizumi, pressing harder.
“KAHORI!” finally blurted Oikawa, gasping.
Silence.
The news reached Kuroo's ears so quickly that his head slipped from his hand, falling onto the futon cushion. He tried to shut his mouth from bursting out laughing again, so absurd did he find the situation. But in the end his silliness won out and he found himself laughing again. “Wait, wait, wait!” he managed to say between laughs. “Did you say... Kahori? That Kahori ?!”
Oikawa didn't reply, but the way he avoided their glances was more eloquent than any words.
Kuroo laughed even more, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “But this is beautiful! Wakatoshi's geisha! You are such an asshole.”
Iwaizumi, on the other hand, wasn't laughing at all. His expression had become even darker. Slowly, he pulled back, letting Oikawa move, but that didn't diminish the weight of his presence. On the contrary, the tension between them seemed even denser than before.
“You're a freaking idiot,” he finally sentenced, his voice low, devoid of any trace of irony.
Oikawa rubbed his sore arm, giving him a grim look. “ None of your business .”
But they both knew: it was a lie.
Iwaizumi grunted, crossing his arms again. “Wakatoshi will be his danna, right? Everyone knows that. And you go off and spend your money on someone who already belongs to someone else? You're a fucking spiteful child.”
Oikawa jumped up, his eyes sparkling with annoyance. “She belongs to nobody ,” he spat, perhaps a little too eagerly. That sentence had come out with impetus. Wakatoshi was no longer the problem. Or rather, Wakatoshi was always a problem . But after their talk, he realised how much her life sucked and how many things she had to accept to live, to survive, to hope to be free in the future.
Oikawa had put his pride on the line, but she was putting much more on the line. Yet she always did it with her head held high, even if she was forced to lower it by greater forces. She never gave up.
And the idea that Kahori might belong to someone, as a miserable object, made him angrier than he should have been. She didn't really belong to anyone. Perhaps, she would never really belong to anyone?
“And anyway, I asked about Kahori at her Okiya for permission to have her for a few hours. If it's the theatre you're afraid of, well that's no problem because I did everything by the book,” he concluded then, huffing. He no longer felt like arguing.
Kuroo raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Wow.”
Oikawa turned to him with an annoyed expression. “What?”
Kuroo tilted his head slightly, observing him with his usual scornful air. “Nothing, nothing. Just... I've never seen you so hung up on something like that.”
Iwaizumi, who until then had merely scrutinised him in silence, snorted again. “You do realise that this is one of the stupidest things you've ever done, right?”
“Oh, come on!” exclaimed Oikawa, exasperated. “It's not a tragedy. It's just... an evening, alright? I wanted to spend time with her. That's it.”
Kuroo let himself fall back onto the futon with a smirk. “Yes, yes, of course. And I am a Buddhist monk.”
“Damn it, Kuroo,” Iwaizumi scolded him, “can you be a little stricter once in a while? The money he used for this antics is yours too. They're the theatre's.”
Kuro seemed to brighten up suddenly. “Wakatoshi gives the money to us for the theatre, and the lead actor uses it to have private soirees with his geisha,” he finally declared, as if he had just performed a coup on the stage of their theatre. “Maybe Oikawa is smarter than us.”
Iwaizumi sighed, then dropped onto the futon, exhausted. “Do you know that if you get too involved, you'll be hurt? Huh, Oikawa? Who do you think she'll choose between a man who's full of money who can take her out of that place, and an artist nutcase like you who lives day to day?”
In response, Oikawa slipped under the futuon, displaying a very elegant middle finger, before pulling the covers up over his head to interrupt the discussion.
Iwaizumi's words had indeed been cruel. But he knew well that he had done it for him.
❀ ❀ ❀
The streets of Gion were immersed in an unreal silence, an absence of sound that seemed almost unnatural, as if the city itself was holding its breath waiting for something . The silence that accompanied him like a shadow prevented him from running to reach his goal. Everything was so static that even his breathing sounded like the loudest thing he had ever heard. He moved circumspectly, his heart beating slightly faster than necessary.
The western coat, tightened around the shoulders with an instinctive gesture, wasn't just a barrier against the cold that bit the skin and numbed the fingers, but an illusory protection against something deeper. An uncomfortable awareness, the feeling that he was making an act so impetuous that it bordered on recklessness.
Yet, he didn't stop.
He couldn’t.
The night air was thick with smells, a complex and enveloping mixture: the damp wood of the old buildings, impregnated with the rain that had fallen in the afternoon, the echo of extinguished ash and coal from the stoves that had heated the houses. It looked like a completely different neighborhood than what he had seen during the day. Because he wasn't supposed to be there now. Because what he was about to do wasn't so "proper" anymore.
He moved cautiously, his steps light, measured, carefully avoiding too much exposure to the soft light of the lanterns. At that uncertain hour, when the night was no longer young but not even close to dawn, any passer-by could turn into an uncomfortable witness. There were unwritten rules in that world, invisible balances that rested on the thinnest of threads, and breaking them meant attracting unwanted attention. He was aware of this, and yet he moved forward anyway, like a man who knew perfectly well that he was walking on the edge of a precipice, but couldn't turn back.
When he finally saw the building he was looking for, a shiver ran down his spine, mixing tension and excitement. The okiya silhouetted against the night like a solid, impenetrable shadow, the windows closed, the lights off, the sighing of sleeping geisha fuelling men's fantasies. But he knew. Behind those thin walls, behind those panels of paper and wood, there were watchful eyes, experienced gazes accustomed to scrutinising without being seen, ears trained to catch every slightest noise, every misplaced breath.
He had to move quickly.
He slipped into the adjacent alley with a natural fluidity, his body tense but his breathing calm, controlled. Every movement was measured, every gesture calculated not to betray him. A quick glance to make sure the road was deserted, then he lowered himself, brushing the wood of the fence with his cold fingers. There were no obvious handholds, but not far away, a Japanese stone lantern stood solitary near the fence. He calculated the distance, then carefully climbed up onto it, feeling the rough surface under his fingers. His balance was precarious, but it was enough for him to push himself up, grab the edge of the wood and hoist himself up with a fluid movement. He landed in the garden with a soft thud, holding his breath. Only the silence of the night to keep him company.
Now he was inside.
He crouched in the shadows of the small garden, feeling the chill of the damp ground creep through the thin fabric of his clothes. The air was a delicate scent of night blooming jasmine . He couldn't see the garden precisely, but the smell of jasmine made him realise that there must be a plant nearby. Above him, the dark sky was veiled in thin clouds, and the moon, pale and distant, cast just enough light to draw the contours of the okiya before him.
The silence was almost oppressive, as if to underline the foolishness Oikawa was doing, as if to judge him. The building in front of him stood imposing, shrouded in darkness, its windows closed like sleeping eyelids. Yet, behind those thin walls, there was life. There were secrets whispered between the rooms, shadows moving stealthily in the darkness.
For a moment he felt like an intruder, a defiler of boundaries that didn't belong to him. Something inside him hesitated. Should he have left? Pretend he had never gone that far? But the blood in his veins was pulsing too hard, the beat in his chest was an unstoppable urge.
By now he was there.
He picked up a small stone from the ground, feeling its cold, smooth surface between his fingers. He casually turned it over in his palm before closing his hand around it. He had no idea which window was hers, but the only thing he could do was play with his luck. He took a deep breath, then threw it precisely against the upstairs external sliding shutters. The sound was barely a tinkle, a delicate noise that in that silence seemed to echo like a drumbeat.
He waited.
Another pebble.
Then another one.
Time seemed to expand, enveloping him in an unnerving wait. Someone opened the shutters slightly, a small candle illuminated the face of a young girl.
“Kahori! Kahori, wake up!”
A pair of hands shook her urgently, fingers sinking into her shoulders with a palpable tremor. Her mind, still shrouded in the fog of sleep, took a few moments to reconnect the excited voice to the figure above her. With an effort, she slowly opened her eyes, meeting Yachi's pale face, her gaze wide with terror. The moonlight, filtering through the open windows, cast uncertain shadows on Yachi's distraught expression.
“What's going on?” muttered Kahori, her drowsy voice.
Yachi leaned towards Kahori, her breathing rapid, her eyes darting to the window as if she feared something might come through their window at any moment. “ There's a man in the garden ,” she whispered, her voice barely louder than a breath.
Kahori blinked, confused. “What? A man?”
“I heard noises, then something hit the window,” Yachi explained in an agitated whisper. “I looked out and there's someone down there! He said he wants to talk to you!”
At those words, the torpor of sleep instantly vanished. Kahori raised herself up in her seat, her heart taking on a faster rhythm. A visit in the middle of the night? To her okiya? It wasn't just unusual. It was dangerous .
“Who is it?” she asked, her tone now completely alert.
Yachi shook her head with even more obvious agitation. “I don't know! I couldn't get a good look at him... but the voice... he sounds young!”
Kahori remained silent for a moment, her lips tightened into a thin line. The answer was already in her mind, clear and inevitable. There was only one person reckless enough to attempt such folly.
She calmly shifted the blankets of the futon and stood up, her movements measured, as if time had no urgency. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, but her face remained impassive. As she approached the small room divider where her yukata was hanging, she heard Yachi holding her breath behind her.
“Wait here,” she whispered, as she slipped into the yukata.
“No! You can't go down there!’ Yachi brought both hands to her head, her voice strangled with panic. ‘If the okasan catches you-!”
Kahori turned towards her for a moment, meeting her frightened gaze with disarming calm. The slightest hint of a smile crossed her lips before fading into the shadows. “Don't worry,” she whispered. “If you keep quiet, she won't know.”
Then, without further hesitation, she slipped out of the room.
She left the room on tiptoe, holding her breath as she slipped into the hallway bathed in darkness. The okiya slept, shrouded in the muffled silence of the night. Only the distant chirping of a few crickets and her heart hammering harder and harder in her chest, broke the stillness of the building.
Kahori knew that place like the back of her hand. Every floorboard, every spot where the wood creaked treacherously. Moving undetected was an art she had honed over the years, and now, as she brushed the walls with her fingertips to get her bearings, she felt herself part of that silent shadow stretching along the corridor. When she reached the stairs, she paused for a moment. She breathed deeply. Then, as lightly as a cat, she started to descend.
The lower floor was even quieter. Kahori approached the sliding door to the garden veranda and cautiously leaned out, moving the sliding door slightly, just enough to look with one eye. The moon, high in the sky, illuminated the small courtyard with a pale, uncertain light. And there, between the darkness and the moonlight, a slender figure emerged, shrouded in darkness.
Oikawa Tooru .
Obviously.
Kahori tightened her lips, crossing her arms as she stared at him from above, still hidden behind the thin wooden panel.
“Are you completely mad?” she whispered, her tone just a little more harsh than she intended.
He stepped forward, but he didn't dare step onto the veranda to join her. “I want to take you somewhere,” he said, his voice clear, confident. Perhaps with such lightness, that it shocked Kahori. “Come with me. I promise you that by dawn we will be back here.”
Notes:
“Fuji” means “Wisteria”: According to the language of flowers, wisteria is a symbol of beauty and sensuality. In Europe, wisteria has always been a symbol of friendship: in fact, it is the flower indicated to pay homage to a dear friend. Just like friendship, wisteria grows and thrives by gently leaning on what is offered as support, while the flowering is long-lasting just like the fruits of a friendship. For this reason too, wisteria is a perfect symbol of a feeling that, if properly cultivated, can grow beyond measure.
When I thought about the interaction between Iwaizumi, Oikawa, and Kuroo… I don’t know if that’s how I wanted to write it, but I like how it came out.
I hope you are enjoying the slightly “different from usual” fanfic. I always thank those who comment and support me with a comment or kudos, but also those who silently read the fanfic.
Chapter 7: Sakurasō 桜草
Summary:
Oikawa brings Kahori to a hill just above the city of Kyoto
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The night enveloped them in its silent mantle as they walked through the almost deserted streets. Kahori fell silent as she felt Oikawa's hand brush her skin before gently entwining his fingers with hers. The warmth of his touch contrasted with the chill of the night, and it was a gesture that needed no words. She said nothing even when he guided her towards a small gravel path that opened up between the trees, hidden in the folds of the city and far from prying eyes. There, between the soft rustling of the leaves and the squeak of the owl, everything seemed suspended in a different, slower, more unreal time.
There was something unusual about him that night. He wasn't the usual Oikawa, brash and brilliant, the one who used his confidence as a shield and his smile as a weapon. No, that night he seemed quieter, more authentic. As if, for once, he had dropped the mask he always wore so naturally.
Perhaps she had been foolish to follow him to such an isolated place. He was still bigger than her, stronger, and if he had wanted to, he could have taken advantage of that distance from the rest of the world. But he hadn’t done so. Weeks before, he had had the opportunity, and yet, in spite of everything, he had chosen not to cross that line. It was this thought that kept her from backing out, even though a small voice inside her suggested she should be careful.
When they reached the top of the hill, the panorama opened up before them like a painting carved in the night. Kyoto stretched out below them, an ocean of shadows from which small flickering glimmers emerged, the lighted windows of a few houses still awake, the reflection of lanterns on the river meandering in the distance. The sky above them was immense, a velvety expanse over which the moon reigned supreme.
It was a corner of the world suspended in time, and for a moment, the two of them seemed like directors of that breathtaking view, so far removed from reality, so able to manipulate their lives as a director enacting an opera.
Oikawa bent down, in a slow, measured movement, to untie the knot of the sack he had brought with him. His tapering fingers worked with an almost absent-minded ease, the rough fabric rustled as he loosened the knot, and a soft sigh escaped his lips, accompanied by a barely audible smile.
“I don't know what they make you eat inside there,” he murmured, his voice imbued with an almost amused note, though a veil of concern lingered in his gaze. “But I'm pretty sure it's nothing special.”
Kahori remained silent, watching as he pulled out a polished box. He carefully opened it, revealing inside a grilled eel* with a sweet and sour sauce. The smell was inviting, the still warm steam rising slowly in the chill of the night. White rice, sticky and impeccably arranged, accompanied the main course, flanked by small portions of finely prepared side dishes – a meal that would have been worthy of a gentleman's table, an almost surreal luxury in the context in which they found themselves.
Kahori looked up at him, her eyes veiled in a mixture of surprise and suspicion. “Eel is expensive,” she observed, her voice calm but perceptibly lower.
Oikawa sat down beside her without haste, letting their knees barely touch, a contact so slight as to seem accidental. “So what?” he shrugged, as if the question didn't concern him in the slightest. The smile that curved his lips had something intimate about it, of a gesture made without expecting anything in return. “For once, eat something without having to think about the price, or who offered it to you, or what you will have to do in return.”
She remained motionless for a moment, then accepted that small gesture, her lips barely parted as she took the morsel. The taste was intense, rich, a small burst of pleasure she didn't often indulge in. It was a nutritious dish, the eel was fatty and had a grilled aftertaste, the sweetish glaze and soy sauce accentuated the flavours and the rice softened them.
They sat like this, next to each other, sharing food and silence. Oikawa didn't talk too much, didn't provoke her as he usually did. He merely looked at the city below them, listening to the sound of the wind in the foliage, as if that night were a small fragment of freedom for him too.
Of course, it was a very unusual encounter. At three o'clock in the morning, eating eel while looking at the city of Kyoto from a hill. But perhaps Kahori could also understand why. How could Oikawa have organised such a plan in broad daylight? Her okasan would never have allowed something like that. Maybe that wasn't what she didn't understand. Maybe it was him who couldn't understand.
After a while, Kahori's gaze slowly slid over Oikawa's hands, lingering on the fine lines that ran across the skin, on the light calluses that marked its surface. They weren't the delicate hands of an aristocrat, they didn't bear the marks of someone born to luxury and affluence. No, they were hands that had known fatigue, that had tightened ropes, lifted weights, grasped every opportunity stubbornly so as not to let it slip away. They were hands that had probably spent years working for something he himself didn't entirely love, but from which he couldn't escape.
Kahori's fingers moved imperceptibly, as if for an instant she thought of touching them, feeling beneath her fingertips the reality of what she sensed. But she held back.
“Why are you doing this?” she finally asked, her voice barely a whisper, as if she was afraid of breaking the stillness that enveloped them.
Oikawa turned towards her, and for a moment seemed to stand calm. His deep, unfathomable brown eyes shone in the moonlight, and in the dark of the night his face seemed more serious, lacking that shadow of lightness he always carried like armour.
“Because I want to remind you what it feels like to just let go,” he replied, with a sincerity that crept between the words like something fragile and unexpected. His gaze stayed on her a moment longer than necessary. “At least for one evening. At least f or a few hours .”
Kahori lowered her gaze to the fingers clutching the chopsticks, then raised it back to him. For a moment, she felt the weight of the night less oppressive, less suffocating.
And for the first time, she didn't feel compelled to smile .
Kahori found herself looking at Oikawa longer than necessary, as if seeing him for the first time. The shadows of the night softened his features, blunting that arrogant smile. His eyes, usually full of defiance, now seemed more sincere, as if they had finally dropped an invisible weight. The moonlight caressed his skin, highlighting the delicate curve of his cheekbones, the firm line of his jaw, the elegant profile. He was a truly fascinating man, if one could look at him without the filter of his provocations.
Kahori lowered her gaze, almost annoyed with herself. She was used to measuring men by what they wanted from her, by the words they said to her and those they hid. But with Oikawa, that night, there were no implied demands, no acting. Just him, sitting beside her, with the wind ruffling his hair and that silence that for the first time didn't seem heavy.
And it was at that moment that she felt it.
A small flame, imperceptible but real, flaring slowly in her chest. It was warm, faint, but insistent. Kahori was astonished to feel it, to feel it arise right there, on an ordinary night, from a gesture she never thought would stir something inside her.
She lowered her gaze to Oikawa's hands, his tapering fingers playing distractedly with a blade of grass, as if they didn't know where to rest.
Maybe it wasn't just the gesture.
Maybe it was him .
Oikawa felt her gaze on him before he even turned around. It was a strange feeling, like a light touch on his skin, a subtle warmth that enveloped him without weight. So, without thinking too much about it, he just turned his face and caught her watching him.
Kahori didn't lower her gaze immediately, as one would have expected. She held it on him for a few seconds too long, long enough for him to notice every detail. There was no make-up to outline her eyes, no red on her lips. There were no artifices, just her, with her simple, youthful features, illuminated by the moonlight glow.
Oikawa remained staring at her, almost hypnotised, as if he were seeing something forbidden, something that had never been allowed to anyone.
At that moment, as if to break that too intense, too real moment, Oikawa raised an eyebrow and let a crooked smile slip across his lips. “Do you like me so much that you can't look away, little Hori-chan ?” he murmured, his voice imbued with a deliberately provocative lightness.
Kahori blinked, as if he had suddenly brought her back to earth. The magic spell broke. “Don't even joke about that,” she replied, finally looking away and focusing on the food in front of her, as if it had suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. “Hori-chan?! What the hell kind of nickname is that?”
Oikawa chuckled, satisfied that he had lightened the atmosphere. But as he took a bite, he realised that the warmth of Kahori's gaze had rested on him, like a small mark on his skin.
Oikawa watched her for a moment longer, his eyes lingering on her as if he wanted to imprint that moment in his memory. Without saying anything, he lowered his gaze to the food in front of him and took a bite calmly, chewing slowly, savouring each moment as much as the taste of the meal. The silence between them was no longer awkward, no longer had that uncertain weight, no longer had those words held back, clenched between his poisonous-tasting teeth. On the contrary, it was charged with something different, with a silent awareness that hovered in the air like the smoke of a freshly extinguished candle.
Something neither of them dared mention.
At that moment, with a satisfied smirk that curved his lips, Oikawa broke that silence, with the lightness of one who knew exactly what he was doing.
“ Finally ,” he said, his voice shot through with a barely perceptible note of triumph.
Kahori turned to him, raising an eyebrow with a sceptical expression. “Finally what?”
He took his time, letting the wait go on just long enough to pique her curiosity. He was in no hurry. The funniest things were to be savoured slowly. Later, he turned to her, with his usual smirk, the one that looked as if it was made on purpose to get slapped and yet somehow still managed to make him charming. “I finally saw the same look you gave me during my first performance that night.”
For a moment, Kahori remained interdicted, her pupils slightly dilated with surprise. Then, as if suddenly the accumulated tension melted away in a flash, she burst out laughing, a spontaneous and genuine laughter that made her eyes shine in the dark of the night.
She shook her head, as if wondering how she could have even thought of taking a guy like him seriously. “You are such an idiot.”
Oikawa shrugged carelessly, still with that smirk painted on his face, as if the comment only confirmed something he already knew. And perhaps, deep down, he was even proud of it. She hadn't denied his statement .
Kahori took a piece of eel and brought it to her lips, reflecting for a moment before adding, in a softer, almost sincere tone: “You know, when you're not acting like an asshole, you really are an interesting man.”
Oikawa blinked theatrically, bringing one hand to his chest with an exaggeratedly moved air. “Oh, dear, I am honoured! It is the most beautiful compliment I have ever received from you.”
Kahori sighed, bringing a hand to her forehead. “I also said that you act like an asshole .”
“But also that I am interesting ,” he emphasised, looking at her with malice
Kahori huffed, then barely smiled: “Don't emphasise that part. I could take back what I have said .”
Oikawa leaned forward slightly, his gaze attentive, almost absorbed. “You know,” he said softly, “you're always so good at responding in tone, at leaving no loopholes, as if you always have a mask ready. But when you pull it down, even just a little... that's when you're really gorgeous.”
Kahori lowered her gaze for a moment, without losing the smile on her lips, then returned to look at him, tilting her head slightly. “And you, when did you decide to become so poetic? So poetic to me .”
Oikawa scowled, “I'm not joking…”
Kahori sighed: “Yet, until a few weeks ago, I could have sworn you hated me.”
Oikawa took a moment before answering. He ran his thumb over the lacquered box, then tilted his head to the side, observing it with a sincerity unusual for him. “I wasn't angry with you,” he finally admitted. “You... you were simply in the wrong place, with the wrong person .”
They both lay down on the cool grass, letting the silence of the night envelop them. Kyoto slept below them, a constellation of tiny flickering lights, while above them the sky was dotted with endless stars, as if embroidered with silver threads.
Oikawa crossed his hands behind his head, sighing softly. “Until an hour ago it was a bit cloudy, but look now. Not often a night like this is so clear.”
Kahori barely nodded, her gaze fixed on the sky. “It's true. It's nice to be able to see everything so clearly .”
Oikawa turned towards her, observing her for a moment before asking, in a quieter tone than usual: “How did you end up there? In the Okiya, I mean.”
Kahori was silent for a moment, as if carefully choosing words. Then she spoke, without apparent emotion, as if she were telling someone else's story.
“My family was poor, we lived in the countryside. We managed to get by, somehow, until the land became sick and we were left without food and work,” she began. “They had too many children and too many mouths to feed. So, when I was still a child, they sold me to an Okiya. In return, they received a sack of rice. I have no idea if they are still alive, I haven't had contact with them for many years.”
Oikawa held his breath, his chest rose and fell in a barely heavier rhythm. His gaze remained fixed on the stars, as if trying to find an answer among them. “A sack of rice,” he repeated softly, as if trying to essay its weight on his lips. “Is that all you were worth to them?”
Kahori smiled, but there was no mirth in that expression. “Maybe. Or maybe that was all they could afford to ask. I can't blame them, when you're starving, you'll do anything not to die. Don't you? I hate this life, but if what I went through saved at least one of them, I'd be happy.”
Silence fell again between them, as thick as the night itself. Oikawa wanted to say something, wanted to find the right words, but anything he could think of seemed ridiculously useless. So he kept quiet, letting his breath let his emotions flow.
After a few minutes, it was Kahori who broke the silence. A part of her was really starting to take an interest in Oikawa, so much so that she wanted to know more about him. “I've noticed that there's a...different tension between you and Wakatoshi. Yes, well, something different than how both Kuroo and Iwaizumi relate to Wakatoshi.”
Oikawa huffed, turning sideways to get a better look at her. “Different how?”
Kahori shrugged, keeping her gaze on the stars. “It's not just rivalry. It's not just an annoyance. It's something deeper. It's like there's something unresolved between you.”
Oikawa was silent for a few seconds, then gave a bitter smile. “You have too keen an eye for someone who should only entertain men.”
She raised an eyebrow. Oikawa's sentence had come out a little too rough, so much so that Kahori could have taken it as a personal dig. But she decided not to instigate that situation any further, as Oikawa seemed particularly annoyed by it. “It's my job to observe. To listen. To understand,” she made a theatrical pause, “and apparently, I hit the nail on the head .”
Oikawa sighed, deciding to speak. “We've known each other since high school,” he began. “After high school, Wakatoshi offered me a job in his company. He said I was wasting my time being an actor and that under him I would become someone. He felt I had potential to do the stuff he does in his damn rich company.”
Kahori looked at him in curiosity. “And you?”
Oikawa snorted. “I told him to shove his offering where the sun doesn't shine.”
A smile grazed Kahori's lips. “Why?”
He turned to her again, a gleam in his eyes. “Because I have a dream. Because I want to decide who I become. Of course, it hasn't been easy. I've made sacrifices. I took shit jobs, ridiculous roles in order to get where I am now. But at least it was my choice. I didn't want to be his puppet.”
For the first time she found herself really close to Oikawa. Different destinies, but they had converged together and brought them to the same person. Kahori looked at him for a moment, as if trying to read his thoughts. “And yet, you have gone to him.”
He paused, then shrugged. "It's Kuroo's fault we went begging from him. But if it helps us get to know each other here in Kyoto. I guess everything has its price, like pride, for example..."
They spent the rest of the time like this, chatting about life, sometimes about nothing, or standing in silence looking up at the stars above them. Then Oikawa rose from the ground in a slow movement, barely stretching his arms above his head. The night air was still fresh, but a strange tension ran through his body, like an invisible thread holding him to something he couldn't define. A subtle restlessness, a pulse just a little faster than usual.
He looked down and saw her.
Kahori was still lying on the grass, the fabric of her yukata slightly crumpled, her dark hair scattered around her face, her eyes closed as she enjoyed a moment of peace away from it all. Thus, without make-up, without the burden of socially imposed formalities, she looked incredibly young. She was incredibly young. And beautiful. Perhaps too beautiful.
Oikawa ran a hand through his hair in an almost absent-minded gesture, his fingers sinking into the brown locks as a silent sigh grazed his lips. There was something annoying about the way his thoughts were tangling that evening, like a thin silk thread that was impossible to unravel. Was he tired? Perhaps. But if he really was, shouldn't he have felt the weight of his eyelids closing, his mind slipping into a blessed torpor? Then why did his gaze keep returning to her instead, as if she were an inescapable landmark? So why whenever she moved, even by a breath, did he feel an inexplicable tremor run down his back, creep under his skin, ripple his breath?
He lay down again, dropping onto his elbow beside her, the fabric of the kimono brushing the ground with a faint, almost imperceptible rustle. The moon seemed to be the only witness to his hesitation.
“Kahori”. Her name left his lips as gently as a breath of wind.
She opened her eyes slowly, as if emerging from a dream, barely blinking before turning towards him. The moonlight caressed her face with silver fingers, tracing the outline of her fair skin, the delicate curve of her cheeks, the soft line of her lips. She seemed unreal, bathed in that soft light, like an image suspended between the real and the ephemeral.
“Can I ask you a question?” Oikawa's voice was low, almost uncertain, yet it held an intensity that wasn't usual for him.
Kahori scrutinised him carefully, her expression betraying a hint of curiosity. “ If it's smart , yes.”
The corner of Oikawa's lips lifted into a barely noticeable smile, but in his eyes there was no trace of a joke. There was only that inexplicable tension, that barely restrained desire, like a wave halting an instant before breaking on the shore. “ May I kiss you? ”
The silence that followed seemed to extend beyond time. Kahori stared at him, as if she doubted she had heard correctly. Then she blinked, incredulous.
“What kind of question is that?” she exclaimed under her breath, almost laughing.
Oikawa didn't move, he was still looking at her, his face slightly tilted. “A sincere question,” he replied. “I have disrespected you from the first moment. I've been arrogant, rude... I don't want this to be another thing that weighs on you. I want to know if what I'm about to do is something you want too.”
Kahori remained silent, this time for longer. It was strange. No one had ever asked her anything like that. Consent, for her, had never been a choice. There had been times when she could refuse something, but only because their okasan, despite being an asshole, didn't accept that their profession resulted in something more akin to prostitution. From that point of view, Kahori had been able to afford to refuse certain offers. But everything else had been an imposition, a duty.
Something that had started as a small, dim light, a flame. But now it had become so intense and strong that it had cracked the shield she had created to protect herself from the outside world. She wanted to repress it with all her being. She remembered Yachi’s speech a few months earlier. Her stubbornness in wanting to deny love, emotion, anything that could make her suffer.
She barely lowered her gaze, but a thin smile brushed her lips. “ Yes ,” she whispered finally. “You can.”
Oikawa didn't move immediately. He watched her for a moment longer, almost as if he wanted to imprint that answer in his memory, as if he wanted to make sure it was real. Subsequently, with almost exasperating slowness, he moved towards her, reducing the distance that separated them.
Kahori felt his breath brush against her skin, the warmth of his presence filling the space around her. It was a warmth different from the soft lights of Kyoto, different from the warmth of nights spent in the quarters of Gion. It enveloped her without suffocating her, touched her without demanding anything.
Oikawa lifted a hand, brushing her cheek with his fingers. A light touch, barely perceptible, as if he was still giving her time to change her mind. But Kahori didn't move. She didn't retreat. When their lips brushed, it was with the same delicacy of a feather against the skin. A barely hinted kiss, closer to a shared breath than a fully realised gesture. Perhaps, deep down, they both knew that it wasn't just about that moment, but about all that it would mean.
If only for a moment, she allowed herself to dream too .
Notes:
*I have read in several stories that in the past eel was an expensive dish that was eaten at special times (if you weren't rich enough to afford it).
“Sakuraso” means “primrose”: The primrose is a flower of good luck, for those who have to undertake a new project, or those who have to celebrate a new birth in the family or simply if you want to celebrate youth. Red primroses have a much more joyful meaning, as they symbolize passion, young love, charm and desire.
It's a very important chapter, because they both come to understand the reasons why they are both tied to Wakatoshi (it's more of a concrete realization). And this inevitably brings them closer. But I didn't want to make the moment too intense because I'm convinced that it shouldn't have gone any other way. Because it wouldn't have conveyed how "fleeting" this moment was.
But, don't worry, the next chapter has plenty of drama in it. Really.
Chapter 8: Nadeshiko 撫子
Summary:
Kahori clashes with her okasan. And while the young geisha thinks the worst is over, as the weeks progress, news comes to her...even worse.
Notes:
In the third part of the narrative of this chapter, the POVs change. On the left you find Kahori's POV and on the right, all written in italics, Oikawa's POV. The POVs alternate, so pay attention to the alignment and writing characters.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The morning was passing slowly within the walls of the okiya, a rare moment of quiet interrupted only by their light laughter and the clink of tea cups. Kahori was sitting next to Kiyoko and Yachi, busy arranging the folds of a kimono, when the fusuma* in their room was violently opened. The air instantly became heavy.
The okasan entered like a storm, the rustle of her kimono preceded by the dull echo of her determined footsteps. Her face was tense, sculpted into a mask of barely restrained anger, and her eyes blazed with an intensity that made the air around her tremble. No words were needed to make it clear that something had happened – the tension she carried was enough to freeze every movement in the room.
With a sharp gesture of her hand, she ordered silence. The simple snap of her fingers was more effective than a shout, forcing immediate attention. Then, when she spoke, her voice cut through the air like the sharp blade of a tantō**.
“ Kahori .”
It wasn't a simple call, nor a rebuke: it was a warning.
Kahori felt her heart skip a beat, she swallowed imperceptibly, but her face remained impassive, sculpted in the same grace she had been taught since childhood. She rose to her feet with controlled slowness, studied movements concealing the anxiety that gripped her stomach like a steel vice. She couldn't afford to show any hesitation.
Beside her, Kiyoko did the same, her gaze more worried than ever.
“Okasan, what's going on?” tried to intercede Kiyoko, in a quiet but careful voice, like someone trying to quell a flame before it flares up.
She didn't even have time to finish her sentence. “Get out. Both of you.”
The sentence fell like a heavy stone.
The tension became almost tangible, a weight bearing down on the shoulders of everyone left in the room. Yachi bit her lip, hesitating for a moment, her eyes darting between Kiyoko and Kahori for guidance. But Kiyoko gave her no choice. She took her hand gently but firmly and dragged her out, unopposed, without a word.
The okasan moved forward a step, her eyes narrowed into two cruel slits. Without warning, she grabbed Kahori's hair, then forced her to kneel until her face pressed against the coffee table. “You enjoyed sneaking away like a thief the other night. Didn't you? You think I wouldn't have known?” Her voice lowered into a venomous hiss. “What were you thinking of doing? Did you think you could play at being in love? Or did you think you could become like those weasels who sell themselves for a night? What the hell did you do with that man?”
Kahori clenched her jaw, her nails sinking into her palms. She felt the cold of the table press against her cheek, the grip of her okasan leaving her no escape. Part of her knew she wouldn't go any further, because disfiguring her geisha would bring her a lot of trouble too. It would have been really stupid to ruin her prized possession.
“Nothing happened,” she said firmly, but the okasan burst into bitter laughter.
“Nothing happened?” she repeated, false disbelief in her voice. “You're not a whore ,” growled the woman, her breath hot with anger. “You are a geisha. You were trained to enchant, to seduce with grace, not to sneak off in the middle of the night with a man who is not your danna.”
Kahori lowered her gaze, her fingers tightening weakly around the folds of her kimono. She knew what she had done was reckless, that impulsive gesture could cost her dearly. Her heart was pounding in her chest as a veil of cold sweat formed on the back of her neck. The room suddenly seemed too small, too stuffy.
“You will not eat for the entire day,” the okasan said in an icy tone, finally letting go of her grip on her hair. The burning on her scalp still throbbed, but Kahori didn't move a muscle. She knew that reacting would only make the situation worse. “ I know everything , Kahori. Let's see if next time you still feel like running after a man like a silly little girl in love.”
Kahori bit the inside of her cheek, holding back the answer that burned on her tongue. She knew that any more words would only fuel the woman's anger. But her breath was still shaky, and shame clenched her stomach like a fist.
The okasan turned slowly towards her, scrutinising her with those eyes that seemed capable of piercing her soul. “You've worked hard to get to this point. Do you really want to throw it all away for a cheap actor? Are you doing this out of spite against me?”
Kahori remained silent. She had always known that her life didn't entirely belong to her, that the destiny of a geisha was woven together with fine threads, manoeuvred by hands stronger than her own. Yet, the okasan's words struck her with a harshness she hadn't expected.
The okasan took a few steps forward. Then, with a sharp smile, she added: “Wakatoshi can give you a future. Whether you like it or not, he is the only security you will ever have. He is a powerful, respected man. You may spend your life being his lover, locked up in a fucking house. But you will no longer be forced to do what you hate so much.”
She paused, as if to make sure Kahori was listening to every word.
“Is he that kabuki actor?” she continued, her voice laden with venom. “What do you think he can give you? An illusion? An empty promise? He could disappear tomorrow, and you would be left with nothing in your hands.”
She slid her hands down her sides, scratching the rough tatami. Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, but none of them could be translated into words. Confusion , fear , contempt , anger .
The okasan stopped in the doorway, the shadow of her figure cast on the floor by the soft lights of the room. “Wakatoshi is really paying a lot for you, and what he can give to this Okiya will be even more when he becomes your danna,” she reiterated, with ruthless calm. “And I will do everything I can to make sure you don't ruin everything.”
Said that, without waiting for a reply, she slipped out of the room, closing the rice-paper doors vehemently.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Kahori stood there, motionless, her breath broken, her legs heavy. The knot in her throat grew tighter, suffocating. She didn't want to cry, she didn't have to. But something inside her was crumbling, like a thread snapping under the weight of tension.
She raised her eyes to the ceiling, inhaling deeply to calm the raging beats of her heart.
She knew she had made a mistake.
But then why, despite everything, did that night with Oikawa continue to seem like the only moment of true freedom she had ever had?
❀ ❀ ❀
The streets of Gion were enveloped in an apparent calm, the lanterns hanging outside the teahouses swayed, casting flickering shadows on the pavement. Oikawa walked between his two friends, his hands tucked into the sleeves of his kimono, his fingers clenched into a fist as if to hold back a restlessness that threatened to spill out. His pace was slightly faster than usual, as if an inner impulse was pushing him forward, as if just waiting was unbearable for him. Kuroo and Iwaizumi exchanged a few words from time to time, short phrases that faded into the night air, but he didn't really catch them. They were just distant sounds, a background buzz compared to the tumult beating in his head.
The thought was always there, constant, like the rumble of a drum echoing from an imprecise point in his mind. He wanted to see her again .
For weeks her name had been tangled in his thoughts, haunting him in the most unexpected moments, tormenting him in the silence of the darkest hours. The taste of her lips was so vivid on his that it seemed to have happened the day before. For weeks he had been unable to forget her, and this exasperated him more than he would ever admit. He didn't want to forget her, that was for sure. Their meeting had been fleeting, but intense. A silent promise that they would see each other again.
When they arrived in front of the okiya, the light of a paper lantern revealed two female figures standing by the entrance. Kiyoko and Yachi were standing there, their bearing composed, but something in their faces betrayed a shadow of tension. A small, barely perceptible detail: Kiyoko's bitter look, the way Yachi slightly tightened the hem of her kimono sleeves. They weren't dressed like geisha, yet something in their faces told Oikawa that something had happened.
He didn't slow his pace. He approached without hesitation, his voice already ready on his lips, firmer than he had expected. As if he could actually show up at the door of her okiya and ask for Kahori. That wasn't how the rules worked, but Oikawa didn't seem to care.
He skipped all the necessary pleasantries, getting straight to the point. “Is Kahori inside?”
A moment of silence. A quick glance between the two women, barely a blink, but enough to create a crack in their usual unflappable demeanour.
Kiyoko lowered her gaze slightly, as if carefully choosing her words. “No,” she finally said, her voice calm, but lower than usual. “She went out with the okasan.”
Oikawa frowned. A slight uneasiness crept into his stomach, but he tried to ignore it.
“Where did she go?” he asked. Even if he knew the location, he couldn’t go to her. Was he going to interrupt Kahori? Of course not, that would only get her into trouble. But something more dire began to creep into his mind. Where had Kahori gone with her okasan?
Yachi hesitated, barely biting her lip. Her gaze darted to Kiyoko for a moment, as if seeking confirmation. It was clear that neither of them wanted to be the first to respond.
In the end, it was Kiyoko who broke the silence, her tone always posed, but with an almost imperceptible inflection in her voice, a shadow of hesitation that Oikawa didn't miss. “The okasan took her away to… formalize the agreement.”
The sentence fell between them like a stone in a well.
For a moment, Oikawa was unable to react. He only felt a cold shiver run up his back, spread between his shoulders and clench his stomach with an invisible grip. He remained motionless, as if his body was trying to process those words before his mind.
Then he swallowed, but it felt like his throat was made of sandpaper.
Formalise the agreement.
“What agreement are you talking about?” he asked, although in his heart he already knew the answer. The question escaped his lips almost automatically, as if his brain refused to accept what his instincts already knew.
Yachi lowered her gaze to her intertwining hands, her fingers barely clenching, as if searching for a foothold in something concrete. Her voice was barely a breath in the evening air. “Wakatoshi has asked to become Kahori's danna.”
A dull sound filled Oikawa's head, like a constant, oppressive buzzing. It was as if the rest of the world had ceased to exist in the blink of an eye, swallowed up by a deafening silence. All the noise of the city, the hubbub of the streets, the distant sound of a shamisen from some teahouse, vanished in an instant. Nothing remained but the hammering of his heart, loud, erratic, pounding like a broken drum.
Wakatoshi .
That name echoed in his mind, opening a void that sucked him in instantly.
Wakatoshi had become her danna.
The idea made its way into his thoughts with cruel slowness, like a blade sinking into the flesh in a measured, calculated manner, leaving behind a trail of sorrow that expanded with each passing moment. But when the realization hit him full force, it was like receiving a blow to the chest, as if someone had ripped the air from his lungs without warning.
There would be no way to approach her again. No more stolen moments in the hidden corners of the city, no chance to exchange a fleeting glance at her without the weight of that truth hanging over them like a condemnation.
Even worse, he knew exactly what it all meant.
Kahori’s words came back to him with merciless clarity, as if they had been whispered directly into his ear. “If I needed to do this, I probably would have.”
He hadn't given it too much thought at the time. It had only been a hypothetical thought, an eventuality so remote as to seem unrealistic. But now it was no longer. Now it was reality.
A sense of nausea enveloped him, heavy and suffocating. He took a step back, feeling almost staggering, and for a moment he was no longer sure that his legs would support his weight.
He could feel Kuroo and Iwaizumi's gaze on him, but he couldn't look at either of them.
It had all happened too fast.
But what was really bothering him? Was it the fact that Kahori had made this decision without telling him? Or maybe it was the cruel knowledge that, no matter how little they had seen each other, something had still been born between them? An undefined bond, never declared, but real. Real enough to make him feel as if something had been torn away from him.
A part of him had always known that sooner or later this moment would come. But he had ignored it, put it off, pretended it wasn't a concrete eventuality. And now that inevitable fate was falling on him like a stone, overwhelming him without mercy.
Kuroo ran a hand through his hair, exhaling softly, as if he wanted to say something but didn’t know where to begin. “Oikawa…”
The phrase was lost in the void.
Iwaizumi remained silent. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his face closed in a tense expression. He was the only one who could truly understand what Oikawa was feeling at that moment. He had known him for too long not to notice every single detail that betrayed his state of mind: his jaw clenched to the point of pain, his fingers that clenched and reopened spasmodically as if searching for a nonexistent hold.
Finally, it was Oikawa who broke the silence.
His voice was low, almost a whisper. “Let's go away.”
It was the only thing he could say. The only thing he could do to keep from collapsing completely.
❀ ❀ ❀
Kahori sat still on the tatami, her back straight, her posture impeccable. Her hands, placed with apparent lightness on her lap, hid a subtle but present tension: the fingers lightly intertwined, the silent effort of someone trying to maintain control. The rustle of her kimono accompanied the slow, measured rhythm of her breathing, each movement imperceptible, resolute, as if she feared that even the smallest gesture could shatter the precarious balance of that moment.
Across from her, Wakatoshi sat with his usual composure, his figure erect and solemn, shrouded in the flickering shadows of the candles. His gaze was fixed, expressionless, yet charged with an intensity that could not be ignored. The silence between them was not simply an absence of words, but a concrete entity, an invisible weight that filled the room and pressed on their shoulders.
Kahori lowered her eyelids slightly, as if to shield herself from the intensity, but her heart continued to beat with a slightly altered rhythm, an irregular ticking that only she could hear. The candles flickered for an instant, moved by an imperceptible current of air, and in the dancing darkness of the shadows, fate seemed already written, ready to take shape in the words that neither of them had yet spoken.
Across the city, far from the flickering lights of the busiest neighborhoods, in a room shrouded in dense darkness, Oikawa sank onto the futon with a tired, dull smile. The fabric beneath him was cool, but his body felt heavy, sinking into folds of tiredness and thoughts he couldn't shake.
Beside him, the woman laughed softly, the sound soft and light, like the clink of a glass accidentally touched. Her voice was soft, almost musical, yet it seemed distant, as if it belonged to a world that couldn’t truly touch him. Her gaze was filled with an unaware naivety, unaware of the emptiness that lay behind his eyes, an emptiness that no laughter, no touch of her, could ever fill.
Oikawa stood still, staring at the wooden ceiling above him, his gaze tracing the irregular lines of the beams as if they might offer him an answer. But there was nothing to find. His smile remained on his lips, a perfect mask, but inside him, the restlessness whispered louder than the silence that enveloped the room.
The woman's hands slid over Oikawa's shoulders with a languid touch, her fingers tracing invisible paths on the thin fabric of his kimono. Wakatoshi's fingers brushed Kahori's forearm. The contact was light, almost imperceptible, yet it weighed on her like a weight impossible to ignore.
She knew what was about to happen, she knew the fate that her position imposed on her, and yet, as the silence of the room became thick, almost suffocating, the awareness poured upon her with an unexpected weight.
Wakatoshi's hand slid along the fabric of the kimono in a slow, almost measured movement, a gesture devoid of hesitation. His touch was neither rough nor gentle. It was simply what it was meant to be: a silent taking of possession, the manifestation of a decision made long ago, since his eyes had first rested on her. He didn’t speak. There was no need. His breathing was regular, his gaze steady, imperturbable as ever.
Oikawa closed his eyes as he felt the woman's lips brush against his neck. His skin recognised the contact, but it didn't welcome it. There was no warmth, no desire, only an emptiness that seemed to expand inside him, digging deeper and deeper.
The distance between what was happening and what he really wanted was unbridgeable. An abyss, an illusion, a lie he had immersed himself in with the hope of forgetting. But his mind betrayed him, filling with a different image, a name he wasn't supposed to think of.
She was out there, somewhere, far from him, close to someone else.
And him? He clung desperately to the body of an unknown woman, deluding himself that he could erase with a touch what had been torn away from him.
Wakatoshi's hands slid lower, his touch firm, as if it wasn't the first time he had removed such complex kimonos. Kahori didn't move, didn't resist. The knot of her obi was untied with a soft sound. There was a silent reverence in Wakatoshi's gestures, a firmness that left no room for doubt. Kahori felt his breath close to her skin, the weight of his body coming closer, and she told herself it was alright. It had to be alright. Because, after all, that was her choice too. She had accepted the contract. She had accepted all that.
Oikawa's fingers tightened around the woman's wrist as she bent over his belly. The movement wasn't abrupt, but charged with a heartache, almost involuntary hesitation. For a moment, his eyes sought her in the dark light of the room, scrutinising the delicate features, the curve of her lips, the shadow of her lowered lashes.
But it was not her.
With a sigh, he released his grip. His fingers slowly loosened, an echo of the detachment eating away inside him. He closed his eyes and let himself be drawn into the moment, not because he really wanted to, but because he no longer knew how to oppose it.
Kahori lowered her eyelids as her kimono slid gently over her shoulders. The fabric was impalpable against her skin, a light touch, delicate like an illusion ready to vanish.
She felt her skin shivering, but it wasn’t Wakatoshi’s touch that caused it, nor the cold that surrounded them.
It was the memory of another night.
Of another touch.
Of another man.
It was a thought that shouldn't have existed, a ghost that shouldn't have made its way through the cracks in her mind. Yet, it was there, indelible.
Oikawa's hands closed tightly on the sheet, his fingers sinking into the fabric as if searching for a grip, an anchor that could hold him in this moment that didn't really belong to him.
The woman moved over him with a sensual and confident grace, her body was a flame burning against his skin, her mouth sought him with a desperate hunger, full of life, full of desire. Her every touch was ardent, a silent plea that demanded an answer.
When she lowered herself onto him, her long hair brushed his cheek, perfumed with an unknown essence, and at that moment, he opened his eyes again.
He wanted to see something. Someone.
The woman in front of him was beautiful and he really felt like an asshole for having accepted her advances only to forget her face.
He sighed, resigned, then extended his hands to her shoulders, let her fall back onto the futon, then he blocked her hands above her head and began to kiss her.
Her fingers reached the knot of Wakatoshi’s obi, sliding delicately between the edges of the fabric. The gesture was slow, measured, but charged with a silent intensity. She felt his breathing deepen as the kimono loosened, revealing the warm skin beneath the silk.
Wakatoshi was certainly a handsome man, Kahori could say she was quite lucky to have such a danna.
Wakatoshi didn't resist. He watched her with his usual silent intensity, but for the first time he seemed to leave himself to her initiative. Kahori felt the power flowing through her fingers, not domination, but full mastery of the moment. Her hands traced light lines on his skin, sliding over his shoulder blades, along his hips, as the breathing between them grew heavier. She felt Wakatoshi's hands move up her sides, the touch firm but not intrusive, a silent response to her invitation. Their bodies met in the warmth of the room and everything vanished with them.
Oikawa let desire consume the moment, let warmth replace the chill inside him for a moment. And when it was over, when her breathing became calm beside him, Oikawa turned on his side, looking into the darkness of the room.
And so, between the shadows of two different rooms, two hearts thought of each other. Two unknown hands touched them. But none of those touches was the right one.
Notes:
*Fusuma: are sliding doors that delimit the spaces of a home and can be used both to separate rooms and as wardrobe doors.
**Tantō: is a traditionally made Japanese knife that was worn by the samurai class of feudal Japan.“Nadeshiko” means “Carnation”: this flower species has become a symbol of different concepts and feelings depending on its color. Let’s see the main ones: White carnation (= appears as a recurring element in Renaissance art in depicting spouses and marriage. I wanted to understand it as "a union" between the destiny of Kahori and Wakatoshi as something more concrete), Yellow carnation (= this yellow floral variety certainly has a less positive meaning, because it indicates disappointment, rejection and disdain), or Red Carnation (flowers in this shade are certainly the most well-known. Depending on the shade of red, the meaning of carnations varies. They can be an emblem of admiration, respect and affection or indicate the most carnal desire, deep love and even suffering love).
N.B. → I would like to specify that the geisha-danna contract was not sexual. Yes, most of the time the danna became a sort of lover of the geisha, but there were also danna who sponsored a geisha for no “physical” purpose (the reason? For prestige, personal affection, aesthetic pleasure).
It's a chapter where A LOT happens, I know. I apologize if it's too fast, but I didn't know how to do it (because my intention was to describe a fleeting but intense moment). I mean, I wanted there to be 3 different, very specific moments to make it clear how everything seems to have precipitated after chapter 7, a decidedly slower and "lighter" chapter. I wanted to do something very "movie" style, that is, tell two POVs that move in parallel and for every different action there is a different POV that carries the narrative forward. In my head it seemed easier to write this thing, but I admit I struggled a lot x°D (I admit I deliberately chose not to make the sexual act explicit). But I felt like trying it and, even if it's not perfect, I left it because I liked the idea. I set up very specific graphics just to make the POVs clear.
Chapter 9: Bara 薔薇
Summary:
The day of the show arrives. Kahori sees someone again after a long time...
Notes:
If you visit @veilody's Tumblr, you can find fan art she drew of Kahori as a geisha.
Go check out the drawing and support this artist. I promise you won't regret it. Enjoy this chapter 🌹.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The lights of the Minami-za shone in the darkness of the evening. It was a little gem in the city of Kyoto — so bright… perhaps even too bright. The buzz of the crowd mingled with the faint sound of the geta brushing against the wooden floor, as the most distinguished guests were greeted with reverence and admiring glances.
Kahori walked beside Wakatoshi, her arm brushing against his barely, an imperceptible but undeniable contact. She didn't need a grip to remind her of her position. Her kimono, a precious gift from Wakatoshi, was a black shadow, intertwined with white Ipomoea alba flowers and green leaves. A very expensive item, but perhaps also a reminder of her position: intertwined, trapped, in an almost wonderful way like a flower, in that life. In her free hand, she clutched her trusty fan made of washi paper, white as snow and decorated with leaves on the outer edges.
The entire theatre seemed to have been sculpted according to his will, the actors' costumes, the set design. It was he who had financed the recent changes, he who had ensured that the show followed his will. Every detail bore his seal.
Yet in the midst of that luxury, Kahori felt an invisible weight, something she couldn't shake off. A silken thread, thin but impossible to break. A thread tied to another person, which she had never been able to sever. Yet there it was, so thin as to be invisible, yet with a weight impossible to miss.
She felt him before she even saw him.
A barely perceptible shiver slid down her spine, goosebumps hidden beneath the impeccable folds of her kimono. Her eyes slid over the room naturally, searching for a landmark she shouldn't have been looking for .
Oikawa Tooru was there.
Had he changed? She couldn't have said that. Maybe there was just a new shadow behind his brown eyes, something she had never glimpsed. What she knew for sure was that he was looking at her. There was no hesitation in his gaze. No hint of surprise. Only that mute recognition, that silent grief that neither of them would ever admit aloud.
For a moment that seemed suspended outside time, it was the two of them again. Just the two of them.
Then, Wakatoshi moved beside her. And reality hit her with the force of a fan. The silk thread remained there, invisible and unshakable. But at that moment, Kahori was forced to ignore it.
She made a slight bow, a barely-there smile on her lips. Then she lowered her gaze and continued beside Wakatoshi, as if nothing had happened.
But inside, she knew that nothing had changed.
Nothing had ever really changed.
The faint rustle of the curtains lowering marked the end of an act. The story, which had already begun long ago, took a short break before resuming with a new scene. The audience, accustomed to the solemn, cadenced rhythm of the kabuki, didn't indulge in thunderous applause: only discreet whispers could be heard among those present, subdued comments on the actors' performances or on the nuances of the drama that had just been performed.
Kahori stared at the empty stage, the dim lights fading the contours of the stage, but her mind was elsewhere.
Beside her, Wakatoshi remained silent for a few moments before speaking. “It doesn't excite you as much as before.”
It wasn't a question.
Kahori felt her fingers tighten around the edge of her sleeve. She turned slowly towards him, trying to keep a composed expression on her face. “What makes you think that?”
Wakatoshi looked at her, his gaze as heavy and direct as ever. “I remember your look well the first time you came here,” he said, with that calmness of his that allowed no escape. “You looked enchanted the first time you came here to see this spectacle. Now you are... different .”
Kahori barely lowered her eyelids, the gentle, controlled smile she now knew how to wear with ease. “Maybe it's because I already know the show,” she replied lightly. “The first time always has a different charm.”
Wakatoshi didn't reply immediately. He merely observed her face with that quiet intensity. It was an uncomfortable silence, because it meant he was pondering carefully over every spoken and unspoken word.
“Yukimura's character has changed,” he finally conceded, looking away for a moment. “Or maybe it's the actor who seems to have changed.”
Kahori inhaled softly. She didn't know if he was referring to the way Oikawa was acting that night, if indeed something in his performance had changed compared to the other times... or if he was talking about something else. About what surrounded them. Of the fact that Oikawa had changed for something that didn't depend on Yukimura Sanada's interpretation. But it depended on her .
There was no need to specify. They both knew there was much more going on. It was a silent game of unspoken words, of meanings hidden beneath the surface.
Then, as quietly as he had begun, Wakatoshi added, his voice low, measured, but devoid of any hesitation: “Satori told me she saw you.”
Kahori's heart skipped a beat.
For an instant, everything stopped.
The soft warmth of the room, which until a few seconds before had enveloped the room in an almost muffled embrace, now seemed suffocating, as if the air had suddenly become denser, heavier.
“Sneaking out one evening,” he continued, in no hurry, as if simply commenting on the weather or the schedule of a show. But there was something, an almost imperceptible crack in the neutral tone of his voice, an inflection sharper, sharper than he cared to admit. “ With him .”
The background noise of the theatre, the faint hubbub in the distance, the muffled sound of the rain that had begun to beat on the roof, everything was reduced to a distant, insignificant echo. Nothing seemed to matter any more, except the tense space that separated Kahori and Wakatoshi.
She remained motionless. She didn't lower her gaze, she didn't let any emotion show.
The words were clear, sharp as an unsheathed blade, ready to carve a truth she could no longer hide. But she didn't change her expression. Even if Kahori's staging was more of a formality due to where they were. She couldn't deny the evidence, because she knew it would anger him. Actually, maybe it wouldn't have been anger, maybe it would have just been disappointment – which was even worse.
A smile barely touched her lips. It wasn't uncommon for her to indulge in jokes, but never had she gone so far as to be brazen in a... rude manner. However…
“I didn't know Satori enjoyed being an innkeeper and watchdog at the same time,” she replied with studied levity, barely tilting her head.
But Wakatoshi didn't smile.
He hardly smiled at all.
And certainly not now.
“It's not about Satori,” he said, his voice a sharp, unchanging line. “I just wonder if you don't like the show anymore... because something else has changed.”
It wasn't about Kabuki.
It wasn't about Yukimura Sanada.
It was about Oikawa .
Kahori clasped her hands in her lap, feeling the silk thread tighten around her, making it difficult for her to breathe.
It was clear that Wakatoshi wouldn't be satisfied with a vague answer.
Kahori didn't look away. It would have made no sense.
Wakatoshi had already realised that.
Perhaps because of the way she had avoided commenting too much on the spectacle. Because of the way her eyes were at times lost in an indefinite point, as if something was oppressing her chest without her being able to put it into words. Or perhaps because more than one person seemed to have noticed the thin threads that still bound her and Oikawa, even though they were both trying to pretend they didn't exist.
Someone had spoken. Maybe only Tendou had seen her, maybe someone else too. But it didn't matter.
She could no longer lie.
“It's something related to the past,” she finally said, her voice quiet but firm. “I and he... haven't seen each other since that night.”
The unspoken hovered in the air like incense smoke.
Wakatoshi stared at it, unblinking. “I don't care what the past was,” he declared with the same unwavering calm. “I want you never to see him again.”
Not an advice.
Not a request.
An order.
Kahori kept her expression neutral, although something inside her tightened strongly.
“Not even for small talk,” he continued, his tone devoid of emotion, but with a weight that didn't admit of repartee. “Not even for anything else .”
Her gaze didn't move an inch as he spoke those words.
Kahori didn't move. She didn't reply.
Because she knew there was no need for an answer this time.
❀ ❀ ❀
The hall of the Minami-za theatre was packed with guests, the light from the lanterns flickering gently, casting swaying shadows on the lacquered wooden walls. The performance had recently ended, but the echo of the actors' voices and the sound of the shamisen still seemed to reverberate in the incense-laden air. Among the guests, ladies in fine kimonos chatted under their breath, while businessmen and government officials exchanged formal greetings.
Kahori was standing next to Wakatoshi, her posture impeccable, while all around her were a lot of people who had gone to congratulate Wakatoshi on the play. People from all walks of life approached him, chatted with him and offered their compliments. Kahori would occasionally give a slight nod when someone turned to greet her. She didn't feel like talking to anyone. In fact, to be honest, she wanted to get out of there. She had fulfilled her role with the required grace, accompanying him to the theatre, being attentive and composed during the performance. However, something subtle and imperceptible had kept her on edge throughout the evening. Seeing Oikawa again and knowing that Wakatoshi knew the truth had destabilised her.
As the guests began to leave the theatre, a young actor from the company approached her with light, almost furtive steps. He must have been fifteen years old at most, his eyes bright and his face still beardless, and his now slightly faded make-up hinted at the acerbic features of his youth.He carried a single rose in his hands, the stem wrapped in a thin red ribbon.
“ For you , Kahori-sama,” the boy said with respectful reverence, lowering his gaze as he held out the flower with both hands. His voice was calm, but in his posture there was an imperceptible tension, a secret that weighed in the air.
Kahori lowered her gaze and noticed, hidden at the base of the rose, a small note tied with a golden thread. The boy held the flower at a measured, almost studied angle to conceal its presence from the eyes of anyone else. Except from her.
For an instant, Kahori's heart beat faster.
With a measured movement, she accepted the flower, deftly letting the note slip between the folds of her kimono sleeves in a natural gesture honed by time and habit.
“Very kind of you,” she replied with a barely-there smile, her voice steady despite the uncertainty that lurked in her chest. The boy held his gaze for a moment, then took his leave with another bow, vanishing as discreetly as he had appeared.
Kahori cast him a quick glance. Next to her, Wakatoshi had his back to her, intent on talking to the last businessman of the evening. The sound of their deep voices mingled with the distant scent of the rain that had soaked the street.
After a few moments, he beckoned to the waiting carriage. He turned to look at her briefly, dropped his eye on the rose and she smiled kindly at him. Wakatoshi didn't dwell on questions, because out of the corner of his eye he had seen the young boy arrive but hadn't paid full attention to the whole scene. Then he whispered to her: “Let's go.”
Kahori inhaled slowly, smelling the rose in her hand for a second. She let Wakatoshi take a few steps forward, then gracefully moved the small note from her sleeve to the obi of her kimono. A much safer place.
The room was enveloped in the silence of the night, interrupted only by the regular breathing of Wakatoshi, who was sleeping deeply inside the futon. The room, rented for the night, was only a few steps away from the Minami-za, immersed in the stillness of a sleeping Kyoto.
Kahori sat for a long moment, her hands entwined in her lap, her face turned towards the sliding window, slightly open. The soft moonlight filtered into the room, drawing shaded shadows on the tatami floor. It had been an intense evening, in many ways.
She would have liked to go back to her house, sleep and forget about Oikawa and Wakatoshi's speech. But she hadn't been able to do any of that, because Wakatoshi had asked her to stay with him in that hotel room. So in her mind Wakatoshi's words kept reverberating, as did Oikawa's gaze and…
With a measured movement, she stood up and stretched out her hand towards the obi of the kimono resting on a piece of furniture. She opened it carefully, as if the mere touch could alter its meaning.
The words, written in an elegant but rapid stroke, made hold her breath:
“Please come around ox hour* in front of the Minami-za”.
Beneath the sentence, a name. Or rather, an alias.
Yukimura Sanada.
Kahori's fingers tightened around the paper. Of course, she knew who the sender really was. It was him. Oikawa Tooru.
Her mind was filled with conflicting thoughts. Why was he asking her to meet him? And why at that very moment? Hadn't he given in to the evidence? Not to mention the shitty time he had set for the appointment.
But, did they have other choices to see each other even if only to talk? The reality was that they didn't have time to see each other. They weren't supposed to see each other. Wakatoshi had made that clear to Kahori.
It didn't make sense. It didn't have to make sense.
She turned to look at Wakatoshi, his breathing steady, his figure relaxed under the covers. He was asleep. He wouldn't wake up. But Kahori knew that, somehow, a part of her had already decided. Even if she didn't want to admit it. She allowed herself time to reflect, as she shifted as lightly as a sigh and picked up the candle beside her.
She brought the small flame closer to Wakatoshi's pocket watch, neatly placed inside the breast pocket of his clothes resting on a chair. It was not yet ox hour. If only she had wanted to, she would still have made it in time to see it....
The night air was cold and silent as Kahori walked with cautious steps through the deserted streets of Kyoto. The pale moonlight illuminated the alleys, casting long, distorted shadows on the walls of the wooden houses. Every step she took seemed amplified by the surrounding silence. She was wearing the same clothes as that evening, although she had styled her hair in a low, messy bun. It was a slightly flashy kimono, but she couldn't afford to use the spare kimono she had brought with her.
When she arrived near the Minami-za, her heart beat faster than necessary. She didn't know what to expect or why she was really there. But she could no longer turn back.
She stopped near a large cherry tree, which appeared like an eerie shadow, her eyes searching for the figure of Oikawa. And she found him. Across the road.
There he was, standing near the entrance to the theatre, intent on talking to a woman. Kahori couldn't see her face clearly, but her relaxed posture and the way she laughed softly indicated a certain familiarity. Then, suddenly, the woman approached him, lifting herself up on her toes to kiss him.
Kahori's heart stopped for a moment.
But before her lips could touch Oikawa's, he flinched abruptly, as if he sensed something. Or rather, someone . His eyes shifted, meeting Kahori's for a single instant.
Time seemed to freeze. Around them, inside them.
He took a step back, said something in a low voice and bowed his head to greet her. The woman, visibly sorry, merely waved goodbye to him, before turning her back to walk away without question. She seemed quite used to his strangeness. To his kindness that turned into evasiveness when necessary.
Kahori felt terribly stupid for going there. But her anger, if she wanted to call it that, had stemmed from something that could only be described as ‘inevitable’. After he had learned about Wakatoshi, what exactly was she to expect from him?
How could she blame him for making his choice?
Part of her was hating him for seeing him in the company of that beautiful woman. But the other part of her knew it was right. Because she had made her choice. And he had made his choice.
The silence between them became thick, almost tangible, interrupted only by the beating of the wings of a nocturnal animal.
Kahori crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly, her expression barely illuminated by the flickering light of the lanterns. “I hope I didn't interrupt anything too intimate, Oikawa,” she said with a sharp smile, her voice low and full of venom. “Perhaps you could have arranged our meeting at a different time, since you were so busy .”
He was silent for a moment, then took a step forward, the moonlight drawing shadows on his cheeks. His brown eyes shone with a defiance somewhere between amused and dangerous.
“Are you jealous?” His voice was lower now, almost a whisper that seemed to want to pierce her. “Because that would be weird, you know? I'm not the one who decided to get fucked by Wakatoshi.”
The blow reached her before she could prepare herself. Something inside her snapped for an instant, but she let nothing escape. Kahori's eyes remained cold, her smile barely noticeable, but the tension in her fingers clutching the sleeves of her kimono betrayed her.
“Oh, so that's how you put it?” she replied, in a tone she was trying to keep light, but barely trembling on the finish. “It must have hurt you to find out that the world doesn't revolve around you.”
Oikawa laughed, but the sound was devoid of real amusement. “Oh, don't worry, honey, I learned that lesson a long time ago”. He ran a hand through his hair, as if to chase away an uncomfortable thought. “If you think it's not all about me, why did you come?”
Kahori felt her breath halt for an instant. She hated herself for that moment of hesitation, for that split second when her heart reacted before her mind. “It was you who called me.”
He took another step, as if to reduce that thin, fragile distance between them. “Yes,” he admitted, with a calmness that irritated her even more. “And you decided to come .”
Kahori looked at him in astonishment. “What is this? Another one of your stupid little games? Was this just a fucking excuse to see if I'd come? And now that you've had that satisfaction your ego is recharged?”
Oikawa shook his head, the smile now fading from his face. “I'm not joking, Kahori.”
She stared at him, confused by that sudden change in tone. “What?”
He lowered his gaze for a moment, clenching his jaw, as if trying to hold back something too big to say out loud. “I didn't think this moment would come. Not so soon. I thought I'd be able to get out of it somehow. But this time it was different...I couldn't.”
His voice was hoarse, almost broken. Kahori felt every fibre of his body vibrate, almost burn, because for the first time since they had met again, Oikawa no longer looked like the guy who always knew what to say, always ready with a sarcastic quip. He looked... angry. Frustrated. Demoralised. Defeated.
“What the hell do you mean?” she asked, her voice more uncertain than she would have liked.
He lifted his gaze and stared at her, his lips tight. “I tried to forget you. I've tried by any means possible. But I can't. Not even with another woman.”
Kahori's heart lost a beat. “Oikawa…”
“I tried to convince myself that it didn't matter, that by now you were elsewhere, with someone else, but reality came crashing down on me. I hate seeing you with him. I hate that you can't be mine .”
Kahori lowered her gaze for a moment, then let out a short sigh, almost in disbelief. “You know what the most ironic part of this is, Oikawa?”
He remained silent, his gaze still burning with that barely restrained anger.
“You didn't come back for me”. Her voice was firm, without hesitation. “You say you want me, that you can't forget me, but the truth is that you accepted my choice without a fight. Did you not have money? It doesn't matter. If that was really the problem, you would have found a way. But you didn't.”
Oikawa clenched his jaw, his hands tightened into fists along his sides. “You don't understand-”
“Oh, I understand very well”. Kahori lifted her gaze, and in her eyes there was neither anger nor sorrow, only a cold awareness. “You let life decide for you. For us. You accepted that I would leave. And now you're saying you can't bear to see me with him?”
She took a step back, releasing the tension that had kept them locked so close together. “Don't make me laugh, Oikawa.”
Oikawa remained silent, and that silence weighed more than any words. He knew Kahori was right. She had made her choice, she had taken the path that would guarantee her survival, while he, with all his pride and possibilities, hadn't lifted a finger to change it. Of the two of them, the one who could have afforded a better life was him. He had a job that could be considered ‘free’. He now even enjoyed Wakatoshi's financial support for the Kabuki. He, who had never had to wonder where he would sleep the next day or if he would have enough money to eat.
Yet, no matter how much he knew, no matter how much that knowledge dug a hole in him, he couldn't find a way out.
He took a step forward.
Kahori stiffened, but before she could say anything, Oikawa's arms closed around her with a force that made her wince. It was a desperate, suffocating embrace, as if only then did he realise how much he had let her go without a fight.
“Kahori,” he whispered, his voice rough against her hair.
She remained still, her hands clasped along her sides.
Oikawa inhaled softly, as if he wanted to imprint her scent on his mind. “I had to come for you,” he admitted. “I was supposed to. But I didn't.”
She wanted to return that hug, if only for one last time. She wanted to let herself go completely to him. But she forced herself not to. Kahori closed her eyes for a moment. “No. You didn't.”
Oikawa didn't release his grip. His breath was warm against Kahori's shoulder, his heartbeat erratic. “Stay with me tonight,” he murmured. It was not a request. It was not an order. It was something broken between the two, a crack in his own pride.
Kahori tensed up. She opened her eyes, breathed softly. “We cannot,” she replied. Her voice was a breath, but inside she felt the weight of each word. “We would only hurt ourselves more.”
Oikawa hugged her tighter, as if to stop her from leaving. “Worse than this?” he whispered.
She shook her head. “I…” She interrupted herself, biting her lip. “Wakatoshi knows we've seen each other and he doesn't want me seeing you again. If he woke up without me right now, it would be a problem…”
Oikawa winced. Not because of Wakatoshi's name-which was now a cumbersome presence between them-but because of the reality those words brought. Kahori belonged to a world in which he had no place.
She moved slowly but firmly, releasing the embrace. She felt Oikawa's fingers graze her arm for a moment before letting go.
When she looked up at him, she found his dark eyes, full of mute sadness. Another lifetime ago, she would have wanted to lose herself in those eyes . Now, however, she had to turn and leave.
And she did.
Kahori's footsteps echoed on the damp ground as she walked away into the darkness.
Oikawa remained motionless, his gaze glued to her receding figure. He did nothing to stop her. He didn't even try.
And when he saw her disappear into the shadows, the glow of a lantern illuminated her profile for an instant. Only then did Oikawa see that small tear slide down her cheek.
And, once again, he stood there. Watching her walk away.
Notes:
*Hour of the Ox: (between 1 and 3 am)
“Bara” means “Rose”: Red roses are a symbol of romance, passion and deep feelings. The red rose is the flower that best represents love.
But how much do I enjoy writing dramatic stuff? I think I'm better at it than romantic stuff LOL.
Chapter 10: Shuumeigiku 秋明菊
Summary:
Kahori returns to the room with Wakatoshi, but something inside her seems to break completely. Meanwhile, Oikawa, Iwaizumi, and Kuroo are planning something.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The warm water flowed over Kahori's skin, enveloping her in a liquid embrace, melting away the tension built up in her limbs and washing away the cold of the night, along with Oikawa's persistent touch. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the steam rise around her in a thin cloud, as if to separate her from the outside world. She rubbed her arms with more force than necessary, her fingers pressed against the skin in a gesture that betrayed her restlessness. It wasn't just a contact to be erased, it wasn't just the trace of his hands on her - it was something deeper, an invisible imprint that continued to pulsate beneath the surface, like a stubborn whisper that refused to fade away.
She sighed, leaning her forehead against the wooden planks of the wall. What was she supposed to do? The answer was obvious: nothing . There was nothing to be done. She had made a choice, and Oikawa had respected it. Yet, the sorrow in his gaze, the way he had let her go... had torn her inside more than she was willing to admit.
She breathed deeply, opening her eyes again. There was no need to think about it. Her place was there. She stepped out of the bath, wrapping herself in the yukata and letting the fabric brush against her skin like a light cloak. She clenched her hands, trying to stop the slight tremor that accompanied her as she stepped out of the bath.
Wakatoshi had recently woken up. The soft light of the room illuminated his serious face, his eyes staring at her with an intensity. He didn't need to speak much to make himself understood. He beckoned her with his hand, inviting her to come closer. “Come here,” his voice was low, confident.
Kahori advanced slowly, her measured steps on the tatami, the light rustle of the yukata accompanying each movement. Wakatoshi reached out a hand and took her wrist, his touch delicate and decisive. There was no hesitation in his gesture, no fragility, no insecurity. With a slight nod of his head, he guided her to sit beside him on the futon, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. As if to emphasise, what Kahori's place was. Next to him .
His hands were warm, strong, rooted in reality. They were hands used to hold, to support, to give structure. So different from Oikawa's. His fingers, tapering and moving elegantly, had always been a breath on her skin, grazing without ever fully grasping, as if he was afraid of holding too tightly and hurting himself. Or perhaps, as if he already knew he would never be able to hold on to anything.
A chill ran down her spine as Wakatoshi's lips met hers with a firmness that left no room for uncertainty. There was no hesitation in him, no need to ask for confirmation. Kahori closed her eyes, letting herself be carried away by the moment, trying to convince herself that this was her refuge, her anchor. Wasn't he, perhaps, her certainty? Her way out of an uncertain existence, from a future that seemed to be written on sand?
He was offering her a chance. A concrete foothold to escape from that job, from that condition of life that held her in an invisible grip. Perhaps there was no love between them, perhaps there never had been. But there was something else. A need, a necessity. And that, more than anything else, seemed enough. Because Wakatoshi was real. As real as the feel of his skin against hers, as real as the warmth of his presence beside her.
Gently, he pushed her onto the futon, his solid figure looming over her with a reassuring shadow. But something inside her squirmed.
The beating of her heart was dissonant, a melody out of time that she couldn't ignore. She felt her mind emptying, but not from the abandonment of pleasure. No, it was something different. Something was escaping her. A subtle, insidious emptiness, expanding in her chest like an invisible vise. A knot in her throat, tightening more and more, preventing her from breathing deeply.
She shouldn't have met Oikawa.
She shouldn't have talked to him.
She shouldn't have allowed herself to be touched by him, even for a moment.
The first tears slid down her temples, warm and silent. So light they seemed non-existent, except for the slight tremor that rippled her lips. She tried to suppress her breath, not to let it escape broken. She tried to control herself, not to let anything show through.
But her breath broke anyway.
Wakatoshi lifted his face barely, the weight of his gaze resting on her with unflappable intensity. His eyes, dark and deep, ran over every last nuance of her face, searching for something that perhaps even he couldn't define. An expressionless thought thickened between his barely furrowed brows as his thumb moved slowly over Kahori's skin.
And then he stopped.
Her cheek was moist.
He remained motionless for a long, interminable moment, the silence hanging between them like a thread stretched across the void. The room seemed to hold its breath with them, enveloped in a dense, almost heavy air.
“Are you crying?” His voice, always measured, always controlled, was tinged with a rare nuance: astonishment. It wasn't easy to detect changes in Wakatoshi's tone, yet at that moment, for the first time, he seemed uncertain. “Am I hurting you?”
Kahori looked away, biting her lip, letting the question go unanswered. There was no need for words. The weight of truth was already creeping between them, insinuating and undeniable.
Wakatoshi wasn't an impulsive man, nor was he prone to sentimentality. Yet, there was something in that instant, in the sight of those silent tears, that disturbed him. The imperceptible ripple of his lips suggested a thought that he didn't express. Then, slowly, he drew back, breaking the distance between them and leaving in its place a void dense with questions that had never been spoken.
“Kahori”. Her name left his lips in a call that was neither hard nor soft. It was just Wakatoshi: firm, immovable, like the trunk of a tree that doesn't bend in the wind.
She closed her eyes, brought both hands to her face, searching for a foothold in the darkness behind her eyelids. Her breath barely trembled in her chest, like a wave breaking without ever really reaching the shore.
And then, barely a whisper: “I'm sorry.”
But for what, she didn't even know. Or perhaps, in reality, she knew? She could no longer define the confusion inside her.
❀ ❀ ❀
The smoke from Iwaizumi's cigarette rose slowly in the night, melting in the fresh air of the alley. Oikawa, sitting next to him on an abandoned wooden crate, stared at the ground with a sombre expression, his hands entwined between his knees.
“I don't understand, Oikawa,” Iwaizumi's voice was calm, but there was a thread of irritation beneath the surface. Irritation because his jerk of a friend had got himself into a mess again, despite all the warnings he had given him. “If you want to be with her so much, why don't you do something? I mean, I thought it was a bitchy little game, one of your usual ones, but if it makes you feel so bad...well I guess you have to do something, even if it's going to be something stupid.”
Oikawa laughed softly, a bitter sound that dissipated in the silence of the night. “Oh, yeah? And what am I supposed to do? Take her and run away? Make her live a life as a criminal? Because that's what we would be. If I took her away now, without a safe place to go, we'd just be two desperate people. Not to mention that, I have to admit even to myself, I don't have as much money as him . I can't ask her to do something like that.”
Iwaizumi puffed, throwing away his cigarette with a dry gesture. “Yes, because you're a saint anyway, aren't you? Before you joined this theatre company, you were really half desperate”. His gaze grew harder as he turned towards Oikawa. “But do you understand that she chose because YOU didn't choose? Kahori accepted that life because YOU did nothing to change it. She knew it would be a burden on you, that you would risk giving up everything and that she could give you nothing more than herself. But if you don't choose to put your life on the line, who should do it?”
Oikawa gritted his teeth. “And what am I supposed to do, Iwa-chan? Go to Wakatoshi and tell him to let her go? What money should I redeem her with? And even if I did, who's to say she would be happy? She has already chosen.”
“ Bullshit ”. Iwaizumi stood up, looking down at him with a mixture of exasperation and displeasure. “She chose because she had no alternative. If she had said no to Wakatoshi, who would have given her the assurance that you would return to her, huh? You let it happen,” he said. He took a step back, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Do you know what I think, Oikawa? That you are too afraid to choose. You wallow in this sorrow, this yearning nostalgia, because facing reality would be worse.”
Oikawa remained silent. His mind went back to the night before, to the warmth of Kahori's body pressed against his, to the way her fingers had trembled when she had pushed him away. To the tear he had seen sliding down her face as she left.
“What if we lose Wakatoshi's financing?” asked Oikawa, lifting his gaze again. “Our theatre, the people who work there, Kuroo.... all ruined.”
Iwaizumi snorted. “Then let's find another backer.”
Oikawa burst into a bitter laugh. “As if that would be easy. I remind you that we ended up stooping to ask him for money precisely because we were in the shit.”
Iwaizumi sighed: “Our company has become a little better known thanks to Wakatoshi. We're not in such trouble anymore. Maybe someone else will be willing to invest in something that has been successful.”
❀ ❀ ❀
Iwaizumi slowly leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in a measured gesture as his gaze rested on Oikawa. The latter nervously drummed his fingers on the table, the irregular rhythm of that movement marked time like a clock. The air was thick, not only because of the smoke rising lazily from the pipe that Kuroo had lit contemplatively, but because of the weight of the reflections weighing down on them.
“If we want to keep Kabuki standing without Wakatoshi's support, we have to think of something drastic,” Iwaizumi said, breaking the silence.
“Drastic but feasible,” Kuroo added, slowly letting out a wisp of smoke. “We can't afford to lose everything over a rash idea.”
Oikawa stopped drumming his fingers and ran a hand through his hair. “We need to find new financiers. The problem is: who? Here in Kyoto, the circle of those who can afford to invest in the theatre is narrow and already well defined. And I doubt they want to invest in something that has Wakatoshi's name on it. He is too well known and respected in Kyoto, no one would want to antagonise him by taking his theatre company.”
“What if we looked outside Kyoto? Or rather, outside Japan?” proposed Iwaizumi.
Kuroo raised an eyebrow. “Do you want us to target Westerners?”
Oikawa turned towards him. “It's not a mad idea. There are foreign traders, businessmen, intellectuals who come here to immerse themselves in Japanese culture. Kabuki could attract them, but only if we make it accessible.”
Kuroo was silent for a moment, then nodded slowly. “We would need interpreters, people who can explain the story to Western viewers. We could even prepare booklets with translations.”
“And do you think you can find contact with the government?” asked Iwaizumi, giving him a careful look.
Kuroo smiled, tilting his head slightly. “I have the right contacts. There are officials interested in promoting Japan's image abroad. If we sell this as a cultural bridge between East and West, we could get funding and logistical support.”
Oikawa let a sigh escape, as if for the first time that day he saw a way out. “Then let's do it. Let's start working on this plan right away.”
Iwaizumi lit a cigarette, hinting at a smile. “Let's just hope it works.”
“So where do we start?” asked Oikawa finally, in a tone that betrayed a new determination.
Kuroo put down his pipe with a measured gesture, before tapping a finger slowly on the map. “Yokohama. It is the main port for trade with the West, the entry point for foreigners to Japan. If there's one place to find potential investors, that's it. There should be two contacts I know here in Yokohama.”
Iwaizumi nodded slowly, brushing his fingers over the edge of the table. “And we have to move quickly. Wakatoshi might not even do anything to hinder us, but if he decides to block the funds before we find an alternative, we'll be in trouble.”
Oikawa ran a hand over his face, the gesture almost distracted. “Then we need to arrange a trip. We are going to Yokohama and talk to these diplomatic officials.”
“It won't be enough just to talk. We will have to show them the value of Kabuki, make them fall in love with what it represents,” Kuroo intervened, with a sly smile. “Westerners are fascinated by the exotic, but if they don't understand what they are looking at, it will just be an empty spectacle for them.”
“That is why we should prepare well. Translations, explanations, a performance designed especially for a foreign audience…” Iwaizumi crossed his arms, pondering aloud.
Oikawa turned towards him, his eyes shining with a feverish light. “We also need someone who can act as a mediator, someone who knows foreign languages well and can help us convince them. Do you have someone in mind?”
Kuroo touched his chin thoughtfully. “I know a couple of people who work closely with foreigners. One of them is a woman of mixed origin, half Japanese and half British. She has contacts with British traders and knows their way of thinking. She could be the key to making it all work.”
Iwaizumi exchanged a glance with Oikawa. “Do you think she'll agree to help us?”
Kuroo smiled, his eyes narrowed to two slits. “If we offer her enough... interest, I'd say yes.”
Iwaizumi inhaled deeply, then stood up with renewed energy. “Then we'll get on the road as soon as possible, the journey is going to be long, we can use the time to organise the ideas there, in preparation for the people we're going to talk to. “
“I, however, am not going with you two”. Oikawa's words faded into the air, but his gaze remained fixed on an indefinite spot on the table. For a moment, he seemed about to add something, then dropped his shoulders with a sigh.
Iwaizumi lowered his gaze to him, barely frowning. “What?”
“I can't leave for Yokohama now,” Oikawa repeated, more slowly, as if weighing each word. “I have other things to take care of here.”
Kuroo scrutinised him for a few seconds, his smile always hinted at, but his gaze attentive. “And what exactly are we supposed to say? That our main promoter decided not to show up?”
Oikawa cast him a sidelong glance. “You say that I am going to arrive when the time is right. And that in the meantime you are going to do an impeccable job of laying the ground for me.”
Iwaizumi huffed softly, crossing his arms. “Are you planning to join us later, then?”
Oikawa ran his fingers across the table, lingering with his gaze on the still-open map. For a moment, his usual mocking smile faded. “By the time you arrive in Yokohama, I will most likely have already taken Kahori away.”
A dense silence fell. Kuroo was the first to speak. “Are you saying you are going to take her away from the Okiya?”
Oikawa barely nodded. “Everything we're doing is for her, right? To give her a way out. There would be no point in waiting any longer. It will take you a long time to get to Yokohama, and if Kahori is taken away by Wakatoshi, it will be an even bigger problem,” he explained, letting out a sigh. “And anyway, if I can't redeem her, how do you think I'd go and get her? On a carriage in broad daylight? This day is going to come sooner or later, might as well do it now.”
“Where do you think you will stay? If you stay in Kyoto, someone will surely discover you. The owner of the okiya shall mobilise the police to find her, and you'll probably be the first one they'll go after, since Wakatoshi knows about you and her, and in all probability, the owner knows as well,” Iwaizumi noted aloud.
“We won't stay here, we're going back to the capital. I doubt they would come looking for her there and anyway, the sooner I get her away from here, the better off she will be,” Oikawa replied.
Kuroo watched him carefully, clucking his tongue, amused. “You know you're getting into trouble, don't you?”
Oikawa smiled, this time with all his usual arrogance. “And when am I ever not?”
Notes:
‘Shuumeigiku’ means ‘anemone’: In the language of flowers and plants, the giver wants to express his or her sense of abandonment or betrayed love. The anemone has always been regarded as a symbol of abandonment, the brevity of love joys and the instability of feelings.
This chapter marks the breaking point for Kahori's emotions; she can no longer hold back certain feelings. And because of this, she ends up giving in to Wakatoshi as well. Wakatoshi is not a fool; he understood what was going on behind Kahori and Oikawa. However, I think he is a little ‘naive’ when it comes to feelings. I wouldn't call their bond love, but Wakatoshi doesn't really understand what is going on. He doesn't perceive Kahori's discomfort, and that's because she's very good at lying. Wakatoshi is aware that she's good at this game, but he doesn't ask himself any further questions because he naively thinks that everything is going well.
Chapter 11: Ume 梅
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The train car stopped with a slight jolt. The journey from Kyoto to Yokohama had been long, but not unpleasant at all. Iwaizumi and Kuroo had made some calls in advance and had managed to arrange appointments for their arrival in Yokohama. On the way there, they had spent some time rearranging ideas and sketching out plans.
While Iwaizumi stretched discreetly, Kuroo ran a hand through his hair, scanning the pavement through the steamy window. “Here we are,” Kuroo murmured with a tilted grin. “Ready to convince some old patrons that investing in our show isn't a total waste of money.”
Iwaizumi shook his head, picking up his travel bag. “When you put it like that, it sounds like a scam. It should be in their best interest to bring Kabuki abroad. Do you know how much interest there is in theater over there?"
Kuroo stood up, pulling up the collar of his jacket to protect himself from the sea breeze that filtered through the slightly opened doors. “Yes, of course. But in the end they only want to know one thing: how much they will earn.”
Leaving the station, they were greeted by the frenetic buzz of the port city. Yokohama had a different air from Kyoto: less solemn, more chaotic, and above all, more open to foreigners. Businessmen in modern suits mingled with merchants and sailors.
“Our first contact is waiting for us at a café near the harbour,” said Kuroo, pulling a note from his inside jacket pocket. “A certain Shibata-san. Apparently he has financed more than one show in recent years here in Tokyo.”
“Let's hope he's still willing to do it,” Iwaizumi commented, adjusting his coat.
The café was a refined place, with low lacquered tables and rectangular cushions. The wood outside was perfectly maintained and kept clean, covered by a canopy that protected it from the sun and rain. It didn't seem the ideal place to talk about traditional theatre, but the man waiting for them in a secluded corner seemed at ease.
Shibata was a man in his fifties, impeccably dressed in a western suit. He was bald, had a big round face and two thick eyebrows. He greeted them with a perfunctory smile, motioning for them to take a seat. “I have heard of you before. Do you mind if we skip the pleasantries? Tell me, why should I invest in this production?”
Kuroo stepped forward with his usual confidence. “Our show is not just a performance. It is an opportunity. Kyoto may be the heart of Kabuki, but the future of the show is opening up to new horizons. Support from you would ensure not only the success of the show, but your own involvement in an art that is trying to evolve.”
Shibata stroked his chin, considering the words. “And how exactly would that evolve?”
Iwaizumi intervened. “We have contacts with up-and-coming artists, a solid history, and most importantly, an increasingly young interested audience. We can take Kabuki beyond the usual small audience.”
Shibata drummed his fingers on the rim of the porcelain cup, his calculating gaze shifting from Kuroo to Iwaizumi like a man accustomed to weighing the words of others before giving an answer. “Details, details…” he repeated, arching an eyebrow. “You two talk like idealists, but I need numbers. Exactly how much do you need?”
Kuroo, who until then had maintained a relaxed air, settled better on the cushion and rested his elbows on the table. “We have calculated the costs for sets, costumes and theatre rent. Not counting the promotion, we want to ensure an experience that will stick in the audience's memory. We need at least a two hundred thousand yen* to get started, with the possibility of expanding the production if the audience response is positive.”
Shibata smiled with a barely noticeable grin. “Two hundred thousand yen... that's a significant amount. And how much do you expect to earn?”
Iwaizumi leaned forward slightly. “We studied the data on the shows of the past three years. The most innovative shows attract young and foreign audiences. If we can differentiate ourselves, we can aim to at least double the initial investment within six months.”
The man took a few seconds to sip his tea, leaving a brief silence. Then he put down his cup with a measured gesture and crossed his arms. “And what makes your show so different? Kabuki has its charm, but today's audience is fickle. What is your trump card? Engaging foreigners is certainly interesting, but I don't know how much they would be able to understand and appreciate our culture.”
Kuroo exchanged a glance with Iwaizumi, then smiled. “We have already made contact with some innovative artists, actors who know how to combine traditional Kabuki with more modern elements. And we won't just stop at acting, but also dynamic stage designs that make use of new lighting technologies. We can bring something never seen before and we will make sure we have translators who can connect West with East.”
Shibata slowly clapped his hands, a sarcastic gesture that immediately put them on alert. “Interesting. But all this requires more funds than you are asking for. Theatre is not just passion, my young men, it is a business. And I don't invest in something that wobbles.”
Iwaizumi, who until then had maintained a measured tone, decided to dare. “That's why we need an experienced man like you. Not just a backer, but a partner. If you agree to invest, we have your name attached to our success.”
Shibata crossed his fingers and stared at them for a long time, then turned to the waiter and nodded. “Some more tea,” he ordered, before turning back to them. “Let's say I'm intrigued by the idea, you're the first to propose something outside Japan. But I want more. I want to see a detailed plan by the end of the week. If I am convinced, we can discuss the terms. If not, I'm afraid you will have to find someone else.”
Kuroo held back a satisfied smile. It wasn't a yes, but it wasn't a rejection either. “By the end of the week, you get what you ask for. You won't regret it, Shibata-san.”
The man stood up, adjusting the lapel of his jacket. “I hope so for you.”
When Shibata finished drinking his tea, he stood up and greeted them with a nod. Kuroo and Iwaizumi remained seated, sinking into the cushions.
“What a man,” Iwaizumi murmured, crossing his arms. “Do you think he'll accept that?”
Kuroo gave a crooked smile. “I don't know. He could have dismissed us with a no, instead he gave us a chance, so that means he's interested in this deal. We can't waste it.”
❀ ❀ ❀
It was the middle of the night when a soft tick against the glass roused Kahori from sleep. Her heart leapt into her throat: a sound so familiar, so distant and yet so close. Her breath caught for a moment as she slowly pulled herself to sit up, her pulse quickening.
With trembling hands she moved the sliding wooden panel slightly and instantly blanched.
Oikawa Tooru.
He stood outside her window, in the shadows, exactly as he had done the first time he had ‘borrowed’ her to spend that night under the stars in Kyoto. His face, partially illuminated by the pale lunar glow, was all too clear. His gaze, intense and unwavering, was locked on hers, as if he was already calling her to him without the need for words.
Kahori hesitated. For a moment, just a blink of an eye, her instinct screamed at her to turn away, not to open that window, to leave him there, outside, to dissolve in the dark like a mirage, like a dream from which one never fully awakes. But it was useless. She knew it. She had always known it. With hesitant hands, her fingers brushed the edge of the sliding panel and, almost resignedly, she pushed just enough to break the boundary between them.
“Come out,” he whispered. His voice low, measured, a whisper that enveloped her like an inevitable call.
Kahori remained motionless, her feet anchored to the tatami, her arms along her sides, as if her body refused to obey that demand. Then, in a deep breath that tasted of surrender, she turned, grabbed a haori and threw it over her shoulders, letting the soft fabric slip over her as she moved.
With silent steps, she crossed the room, descended the stairs, opened the side door and stepped into the fresh air of the garden, her heart beating faster with every step.
Oikawa waited for her in the shadows, his fists clenched, his expression indecipherable, but something shone in his eyes that made her tremble more than the cold of a winter night ever could.
“Do you know what you're doing?” she whispered, her voice more fragile than she would have liked. Her heart still pounded in her chest, too loud, too noisy. As if she already knew the answer.
“Yes”. His voice didn't waver. It was firm, solid, devoid of hesitation. He took a step forward, stepping partially out of the shadows, allowing the moonlight to reveal every detail of his face. There was no trace of the usual mischievous smile, none of those smug grins he used to mask his true emotions. Just seriousness, just raw determination, stripped of all artifice. “I'm here for you .”
Kahori held her breath. Her fingers closed into tight fists along her sides, as if that one sentence had been a well-aimed blow, an invisible punch in the stomach. She felt her mind completely lose control, she felt her thoughts clashing against each other in a confused turmoil.
“Oikawa, you can't”. She said it in one breath, almost in a whisper, but the intensity in her words was the same as a stifled cry. “Wakatoshi has already paid my debt and I agreed to go with him.”
The air grew heavier, thick with something unspoken, something they both knew but neither really wanted to face. The weight of debt, of the invisible chains that still held her back.
“I... I can't leave”. An imperceptible tremor crossed her lips as she spoke those words.
But he didn't wince. He didn't stiffen. He didn't even show a shadow of surprise. He merely inhaled deeply, closing his eyes for a moment, as if he had foreseen every single word she would say.
“I don't care”. His voice was lower now, but no less intense. “I don't care if you have no money. I don't care if it will be a problem.”
A step forward. Then another. The shadows recoiled at his movements, as if afraid of his determination. “ Come with me . Please.”
It wasn't a request. It wasn't a plea. It was a naked truth, a fate he had already decided. “I have already spoken to Iwaizumi and Kuroo. They are going to help us.”
Kahori felt her own breathing become shorter, quicker. Oikawa didn't give up, and finally whispered: “You just need to say yes.”
His words remained suspended between them, light as a whisper, heavy as chains. And in that instant, everything seemed to stop. “The choice is now entirely up to you .”
Oikawa's words hung lightly in the air, but their weight crushed her chest. There was an unexpected gentleness in his voice, a warmth that contrasted with the fierce determination of moments before.
“If you want to stay, I'll leave”. His expression betrayed no uncertainty, yet there was something deeper in his eyes, a silent restlessness, a thin thread of restrained suffering. “ I will never bother you again.”
Those words made Kahori tremble more than she wanted to admit. The idea of never seeing him again, of waking up the next day knowing that Oikawa would fade into the past like an unattainable dream, tightened her breath in her throat. The words froze in her throat.
“But if you choose to come with me…” He paused, as if to give her a moment to breathe, as if to allow her time to imagine what that would mean. “I will take you away from here, even if the life I can offer you is not the one you deserve.”
Oikawa lowered his gaze, perhaps for the first time since he had stood before her that night. He wasn't a man who gave up easily, but in that admission was all the awareness of his imperfection. He knew he couldn't guarantee her a certain future, a comfortable existence, but what he was offering her was real, true, and was invaluable to him. “But I promise I will do what I can.”
Kahori felt her knees give way, as if the weight of her emotions were too much to bear. The heart cried out for one thing, the brain for another.
Freedom.
It was there, in front of her.
Just one step away.
But did she have the courage to grasp it?
She ran a hand through her hair, trembling fingers grazing the dark locks, trying in vain to make sense of the whirlwind swirling inside her. “If I leave now, that money will go straight into my okasan's pockets. It wouldn't be fair, he paid to take me with him. I know I owe her, but I don't think it's fair for Wakatoshi to pay for something he won't get.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again in disbelief. He really couldn't believe what he had heard. “So what? Wakatoshi has so much money that nothing will change for him,” he finally blurted out, almost resentfully.
She shook her head. “It's not just about the money. I can't just disappear without telling him anything,” she sighed, trying to find the right words, “It's complicated, okay? If you really want to take me away, you have to take me to him first.”
Silence fell between them. Oikawa looked at her as if she had just said the most absurd thing in the world. “Are you kidding? Are you?”
Kahori stared at him, firm in her decision. “No. I want to look him in the eye when I return his money, when I tell him I'm not going to go with him.”
Oikawa ran a hand through his hair, snorting in exasperation. “Kahori, you are... damn stubborn. We risk getting caught, do you know that? Do you want to steal money from your okasan? Don't you think she'll do anything to track you down? And on top of all that, you also want to go and say hello to Wakatoshi? Do you want to tell someone else that you are running away?”
“It won't change anything, because Wakatoshi might come and take the money back. As long as I am in this house it's my okasan who is responsible for my actions. I don't love him, that's true, but I also don't want to leave as if I never knew him. It would be disrespectful. I understand that it's difficult to understand this, but I have to do it,” she began to say. “If I don't do it, I won't go with you.”
They stared at each other for a long time, locked in a silent confrontation, a wordless tug-of-war in which neither seemed willing to yield. Their wills clashed without speaking up, in a silent duel where the gaze of one sought to penetrate the convictions of the other.
Oikawa wanted to protest. God, he wanted to. Every fiber in his being screamed at him to oppose, to tell her that this made no sense, that wasting time like this was a risk they couldn't afford. He wanted to grab her by the shoulders, shake her, force her to see reality for what it was: cruel, unjust, impossible to bend to her ideals of fairness.
The mere idea of taking her directly to Wakatoshi sent him over the edge. He couldn't conceive it, couldn't accept it. Why did Kahori keep clinging to something he couldn't understand? Why was that damned debt holding her so tightly, as if it were an unbreakable bond? Wakatoshi didn't need all that attention. He wouldn't lose sleep over that money, he wouldn't be left pining for something that was nothing more than a contract to him.
Then why couldn't Kahori simply leave it all behind? If it wasn't love, what was it that kept her bound to him?
The silence stretched on for a few more moments, as heavy as a sentence. And in that suspended time, Oikawa searched for an answer, a justification, something that could help him understand what Kahori's heart was hiding.
But her expression left no room for compromise. She was tired, yes. She was tried by everything that was happening. But her determination remained unwavering, unbroken like a sharp blade.
In the end, it was he who gave in.
A burst of frustration crossed his shoulders, a long, forced breath as he lowered his gaze for a moment, biting the inside of his cheek in an attempt to hold back the instinct to force himself on that decision.
“Damn it, Kahori.” His voice was a low growl, steeped in resignation and irritation. “You really are unbearable.”
Kahori barely tilted her head, her lips folding into a tired, almost wistful smile, as if she had already known from the start what his answer would be. “Do you accept it, then?”
Oikawa lowered his gaze for a moment, before nodding reluctantly. “That will make it more complicated, you know that right?”
She nodded, her heart pounding. “Wakatoshi is in Tokyo, if we move quickly we can find him before he leaves to come here. My okasan will do all she can to stall before Wakatoshi arrives here, because she hopes to resolve the matter before he finds out. I know where he lives because I eavesdropped when he was talking to the okasan.”
Oikawa huffed, “So I have to take you to his house as well? The only good thing about this madness is that we already have to go to Tokyo and then meet up with Iwa and Kuro.”
Kahori crossed her arms, barely tilting her head. "Do you want me to give him all this money in public, in front of everyone?"
Oikawa closed his eyes for a long moment, breathing in deeply, as if trying to gather all the patience in the world. “Oh, sure. Because it's a great idea to run away from Kyoto with all that money with us, while trying to slip away without a trace. Very good, Kahori. Have you ever heard of discretion?”
She bit the inside of her cheek to hold back an acid retort. She had anticipated his opposition, his frustration, yet she couldn't ignore the sense of propriety that drove her to act this way. Oikawa might not understand it, but it was important to her. In order to close that chapter, to not feel indebted to anyone. She had been forced into that debt with okiya. And in her heart she knew she wouldn't repay it. But with Wakatoshi she could still go back, she could still decide to close that chapter the way she wanted.
“Nothing will happen. I am going to him, return the money and then leave. The end,” she insisted. “The main problem will be getting out of Kyoto, so once we get to Tokyo I don't think the police will be looking to find a lost geisha. Not in Tokyo at least, because to them I could have gone anywhere. I might as well be dead.”
Oikawa stared at her, then shook his head, surrendering. “And I'm supposed to trust that everything will go smoothly? Kahori, do you know that he might not accept it? He might think it's an insult. He might keep you there with him.”
“I don't know, but I have to try”. She took a step forward, seeking his gaze. “Are you with me or not?”
Oikawa dropped his shoulders, his face bent in an expression that mixed weariness and resignation. “You really left no choice, honey. Let's go. But if anything goes wrong, I swear I'll pick you up and carry you off by force. We'll really be in deep shit by then.”
Kahori barely smiled, but she said nothing. She knew it was his silent promise that protected her more than anything else.
❀ ❀ ❀
The Yokohama station was crowded even at that hour of the evening. Locomotive smoke wafted through the air, mingling with the smell of sea and coal. Kuroo and Iwaizumi made their way through the crowd at a brisk pace, heading for a small restaurant near the sea. Kuroo's contact was waiting for them in a reserved room, away from prying eyes.
The woman sat casually on a dark wooden chair, a glass of liquor between her tapered fingers. Her sharp face and elegantly cropped hair hinted at her mixed origins. Her eyes, a light almost golden brown, rested curiously on them as they entered.
“You are on time,” she commented, setting down her glass. “Kuroo, my old friend, it's rare to see you embroiled in such risky business.”
Kuroo let go in a chair with a sly smile. “Violet-san! You know I can't sit still when I see an opportunity.”
Iwaizumi stood for a moment, scrutinising her carefully before sitting down next to Kuroo. He still wasn't convinced he could trust her, but their plan needed someone with her talent, with her ability to communicate in a language so different from theirs.
“So,” Kuroo resumed, “we need a capable performer in order to take our theatre beyond Japan. Our show needs new investors, and you are the right person to convince certain Westerners to take an interest in something like kabuki.”
The woman interlaced her fingers under her chin, barely tilting her head. “Do you already have names in mind or do you want me to find them?”
“No foreign contacts, but we are in negotiations with a man who also works with them and could help with some initial financing,” Iwaizumi intervened. “We know you have worked with British and American merchants. We need someone who understands their mentality.”
She smiled slowly. “I see. And what's in it for me?”
Kuroo crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “A percentage of the earnings, of course. And a chance to enter a world that could bring you much more than a few translations.”
The woman giggled, bringing her glass to her lips. “I like the way you think. I just hope your lead actor knows what he's doing. I've heard of this Oikawa, but... he doesn't strike me as the type to compromise.”
Iwaizumi sighed. “He isn't. But if everything goes according to plan, no one will have to compromise .”
She shook her head with an enigmatic smile. “We shall see. So, tell me everything.”
Kuroo leaned forward slightly, his usual gambler's smile still firmly on his lips. “We need a bridge between two worlds, and you are the only one who can make it work. We need investors, yes, but not only. We want to create curiosity, get people talking about our company in the right circles. People who matter, people who might see Kabuki as something more than just exotic theatre.”
The woman drummed her fingers on the table, watching them both with an indecipherable gaze. “Kabuki is a complex art. Westerners may see it as a curiosity, but why should they invest in it?”
Iwaizumi, who had remained silent until then, crossed his arms and replied in a measured tone. “In a changing world, Japan is opening up more and more to foreigners. Investors who move now will have the advantage of being the first to bring this art form to an international audience. Museums, exhibitions, collaborations: Kabuki can become a cultural bridge between East and West. And those who support it now will be seen as pioneers.”
Kuroo continued: “Why see it only as a mere curiosity? Kabuki is a gateway to something much bigger. Foreign investors who choose to finance our company won't only have the opportunity to bring this art to their own countries, but will also be able to establish a direct link with Japan itself”. He paused, then resumed: “Think about it: whoever invests in Kabuki invests in the heart of Japanese culture. And when a foreign businessman comes into contact with our world, he may fall in love with it, he may decide to expand his interests here, open up new avenues. Companies, collaborations, luxury tourism, political connections... A first step in Kabuki could turn into a more solid and influential presence in the Land of the Rising Sun.”
She nodded slowly, lighting a cigarette in a fluid motion. “And what makes you think I can convince them?”
Kuroo chuckled. “Oh, come on, don't be modest. You have more contacts in one port city than we have in all of Japan. More importantly, you know how to talk to people, you know what they want to hear.”
The woman let out a wisp of smoke from her half-closed lips, studying them for a long moment. Next, with a faint smile, she placed the cigarette on an ashtray and replied: “I'll take care of that. But I want thirty per cent on every investment I can close.”
Iwaizumi raised an eyebrow. “Thirty? Isn't that a bit much?”
She lifted her shoulders, with an almost feline grace. “I am opening doors for you that you alone couldn't even touch. The risk is all mine.”
Kuroo and Iwaizumi exchanged a quick glance. It was a high amount, but they had no alternative. It was a ‘temporary’ sacrifice, because if they had been successful, they would have been able to open “other doors”. They would no longer have needed anyone.
After a few seconds of silence, Kuroo stretched his smile wide and held out his hand. “Deal done.”
She hesitated for a moment, then squeezed Kuroo's hand firmly. “Good. Then see you in two days. I already have a couple of names in mind.”
As they left the restaurant, Iwaizumi cast a glance at Kuroo. “If this goes wrong, it will reduce us to misery.”
Kuroo laughed softly. “I know. But, dear friend, think if it goes well instead .”
❀ ❀ ❀
The flat was silent, broken only by the light scraping of the brush on the paper. Kahori sat at a low table, her back slightly bent, as her hand moved cautiously over the thin paper. The ink flowed in firm strokes, but the imperceptible tremor of her fingers betrayed the agitation that weighed on her chest.
She had left Gion. She had left her life behind. Yet, there was still something that bound her to that reality: Kiyoko and Yachi. She couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to them, without explaining at least part of her choice. But how could she sum it all up in a few lines? How could she express the tangle of feelings that tormented her?
Oikawa was sitting on a futon not far away, his eyes fixed on her. He didn't speak, but impatience was almost tangible in the air. He had agreed to give her time to write, but he knew they couldn't linger long. Kyoto was no longer a safe place for them.
When Kahori laid down the brush, letting the ink dry, she took a moment to observe the result. The words seemed cold, distant, even though she had poured all her sincerity into them. She inhaled deeply, trying to suppress the knot that had formed in her throat. She couldn't cry now. That wasn't the end, after all. When she managed to sort out her life, she could track them down.
“How are you going to get it to them?” asked Oikawa, finally breaking the silence.
Kahori looked up at him, clutching the letter carefully. “There is a postman with orange hair, his name is Hinata. He can secretly deliver it to Kiyoko and Yachi, he always comes by the Gion district to deliver the letters.”
Oikawa didn't blink. The name didn't mean anything to him, and at that moment it didn't matter. He nodded, accepting without question. “Alright. But we have to move quickly. We can't stay here for long.”
Kahori was hugging herself in the oversized coat Oikawa had given her, the fabric impregnated with his scent, as she tried to keep her hands still. He was crouched in front of her, intent on lacing his boots with quick movements, his face tense and his eyes focused.
“We have to move now,” he whispered, looking up at her. “As soon as they realise you're missing, it will be over.”
Kahori nodded, wearing her cap to cover her forehead. Her hair was hidden under the rough fabric, and her kimono had been replaced by looser western clothes, which made it difficult for her to even recognise herself. They were so wide as to hide her feminine form, she looked like a boy under eighteen. She felt alienated from her own reflection, but it was the only way to go unnoticed.
Oikawa cautiously opened the door, leaving it ajar as he checked the street. The night enveloped them with its sharp chill, and a chill ran down her spine. “Let's go”. He touched her wrist to draw her towards him, but he didn't take her hand. This was no time for hesitation or careless gestures.
They slipped outside, the streets were deserted, but the echo of their footsteps seemed to echo off the walls of the wooden houses. The city slept, unaware of the danger looming over them. Kahori felt the pulse in her chest grow faster with every corner they turned, as if a shadow might pop up at any moment and grab them.
As they reached the heart of the city, the glow of the lanterns became more intense, and with it, the risk of being recognised. Kahori lowered her gaze, gluing her chin to her chest, while Oikawa walked at her side with apparent confidence. No one stopped them. No one looked at them.
It was only when they caught sight of the silhouette of the station that the tension in her body barely eased. The big clock still read two hours before the first ride on a long journey to Tokyo.
“Should we wait here?” whispered Kahori, not daring to raise her voice.
Oikawa nodded vaguely, scanning the surrounding area. “Not inside. It's too risky. Let's find a more secluded spot.”
They moved along the side of the building, where a bench hid in the shade of an old tree. It was cold, the wood frozen under Kahori's fingers as she sat down on it. It was a small garden, quite hidden and practically deserted at that time of night. Oikawa stood beside her, arms crossed and staring straight ahead. His posture was tense, every muscle ready to snap at the slightest sign of danger.
Kahori watched him furtively, trying to interpret his silence. “If we are discovered…” she began, but her voice was lost in the hiss of the wind. “The station might be the first place to check…”
“We won't be discovered”. The answer was stark, like a promise carved in stone. He wasn't sure about those words, but he didn't want to give Kahori further doubt or worry.
Kahori lowered her gaze to the hands entwined in her lap. She wanted to believe him. She had to believe him. But anxiety clenched her stomach as the hours rolled slowly by in the darkness. Every shadow that moved in the night seemed to her a sign of the end.
Oikawa turned towards Kahori, his face serious and his gaze attentive. Every noise seemed amplified by the silence of the night.
“You must stay hidden until I return,” he told her in a low voice, trying to keep a firm tone. “Don't let anyone see you for any reason. I’m going to deliver the letter to this chibi-chan guy . When I get back, I will have already bought the train tickets, and we’ll get on right away."
Kahori nodded, holding the letter between her fingers before handing it to him. “Hinata works at a warehouse near the wooden bridge, towards the market. He starts early, so if you are quick you should find him before he leaves for deliveries.”
Oikawa took the letter and placed it under his coat, making sure it was well hidden. “And are you sure we can trust him?”
Kahori gave a half smile. “He doesn't know anything about me, but I know he cares a lot about Yachi. If you give it to him and tell him it is an important letter from me, he will deliver it without question. Make sure you tell him that h e must not be seen by the okasan . It doesn't matter when he will deliver it, even in a week if he can't get close to Yachi sooner. The important thing is...that she gets it sooner or later.”
Oikawa sighed, casting a glance at the darkened station. “Alright. I'll be back as fast as I can. You stay here and don't move. If they find out we're going to Tokyo, we might take the problem all the way there.”
Kahori clutched herself in the coat that was too large for her, lowering the cap to her forehead. “I can take care of myself. Go, before it gets late.”
Oikawa didn't reply, but stood looking at her for a moment too long before turning and disappearing into the shadows of the sleeping city.
Notes:
“Ume” means “Plum Blossom”: The plum blossom (extremely similar to the cherry tree) is much loved in Japan, because it blooms early, during the winter months, when the ground is still covered with snow. Because of the courage with which this flower defies the harshness of winter, it represents hope, and resistance to the difficulties of life.
*I admit that I have no idea how many yen could be needed for a loan, so take this figure as "pure fantasy". I know it seems low, but we are talking about Kyoto in the 30s, so I couldn’t use even very high figures. I couldn’t find any information about it, so in the end I decided not to ask too many questions and leave it alone.
This chapter is a little longer because if I had divided it, I would have ended up with two short chapters, so I combined them, alternating between the actions of Kuro-Iwa and Kahori-Oikawa.
Honestly, from an economic/financial point of view, I am a bit ignorant. I tried to create conversations that made sense without going into detail (because I wouldn't have been able to write anything better).
As you have seen, this is the penultimate chapter. I wrote it very quickly, inspired by the moment. I feel I could have written more, but I don't think I intend to write sequels or other chapters. I wanted to indulge myself and threw myself into writing like a runaway train.
Chapter 12: Botan 牡丹
Summary:
Kahori decides to go and talk to Wakatoshi in person at his home in Tokyo.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The journey from Kyoto to Tokyo had been long and silent, punctuated by the cadenced rhythm of the train wheels on the tracks. The hours* spent travelling had left Kahori with a sense of unreality about them, as if time had dilated, suspended between the past and a still uncertain future. Oikawa had been by her side the whole time, but there were moments when silence had crept between them, so thick it weighed on her chest.
Kahori was doing something crazy. She could hear the voice of her okasan, but also that of any other person in her condition. Throwing away that hand soaked in security and a better future to throw herself into the arms of a man. A man whom, after all, she didn't know so well, but who, from the first moment she met him, had never left her heart.
They were two idiots . Because yes, Oikawa also fell into the category of “foolish and senseless actions”. But they had chosen to take that leap into the void together. With no obligations, no forced choices just to have a better life. Perhaps a little adrift, with an uncertain future...but free.
Those hours spent on the road had been destabilising. She had been afraid, as if any gaze aimed at her could be an enemy, someone to run away from. She had constantly feared that Iwaizumi and Kuroo had failed. She also had them to thank for the fact that, to keep up with their decerebrate friend, they were risking everything.
It was difficult to express those emotions, because they had gripped her mind all at once, confusing her. She was excited, for the first time in her life she could call herself free. She had decided to go with Oikawa, not because it was the most convenient choice, but because she really wanted to be with him. The prospect of a completely different new life made her happy and fearful at the same time.
Part of Kahori knew that the decision to go to Wakatoshi one last time was rather stupid. She had lived by putting her head down, more than once, she had lived by choosing the better alternative at the expense of what she really wanted. Wakatoshi had never been mean to her. They had become something more like lovers, but there had never been love. Not for Kahori, at least. However, even if there had been no love between them, he hadn't been cruel. So, the more human and grateful part of Kahori felt that she should at least apologise to him for creating all that mess.
It was all so uncertain, so elusive. But every time her mind was screaming at her to turn back, she had looked up at Oikawa and he had quietly and discreetly slid his hand over hers, smiling at her. And thus, the whirlwind in her heart had slowly calmed down. Luckily, she hadn't been the one to drive that damn train, because it would probably have been a constant ‘going back and forth’. Fortunately, in spite of the confusion in her head, that train had always moved forward along the track, as if it had been certain that was exactly the road she had to take.
Now, finally, they had arrived.
Wakatoshi's house loomed up before her, imposing and discreet at the same time, a dwelling that perfectly reflected its owner. Oikawa had stayed in the small flat in Tokyo, owned by Kuroo, at Kahori's request. So she had gone completely alone to visit him. She knew nothing would change, but she had decided she wanted to do it alone. Alone together with Wakatoshi .
She inhaled deeply, clutching in her hands the small peony she had picked along the way. The kimono she wore was simple, without flashy ornaments, the long sleeves slid lightly down her arms. It was an old kimono they had found in Kuroo's flat. Under her arm, the weight of the money Wakatoshi had given to her okasan seemed heavier than it actually was. If only someone had stopped them for checks, with all that money in their hands, it would have been a real mess. It would have been difficult to explain where all that money came from. It would have been difficult not to be identified and taken back to Kyoto.
She took a step forward, then another, until her knuckles grazed the door. She knocked once. Then a second.
When the door opened, Wakatoshi stood motionless for a long moment. He looked at her with a surprise he didn't bother to conceal, as if he had never imagined he would find her there, on his doorstep. The woman to whom he had paid his debt and who had agreed to go with him. The woman who was now to be his property.
Kahori lowered her gaze for a moment, then raised it again to look him straight in the eye. There was no hesitation in her gaze, only the determination of one who has made a choice and wants to see it through to the end.
“Wakatoshi-sama,” her voice was calm, but hid a subtle tension. “I have come to return to you what is yours .”
Wakatoshi remained staring at her, his golden eyes no longer certain. He said nothing immediately, but something indecipherable crept into his expression. Kahori could see those features tensing into something rigid, into something that was completely beyond his control. It was clear that he wasn't used to that kind of situation, he was used to taking things firmly in life, with the conviction that he was capable of it.
Yet, now, that conviction had knocked at her door and had just slapped reality in his face: You can’t always win in life, sometimes you don’t always get what you want . A sad reality that Kahori had often experienced, but Wakatoshi, perhaps for the first time in his life, was experiencing it at that moment.
Only the silence around them seemed to separate them as their eyes met.
Wakatoshi sighed, looked beyond Kahori to see if anyone else was there, then moved and motioned for her to enter the house. Kahori entered, made a small bow, took off her geta and then went to sit in a chair next to a table.
“Evidently what belonged to me has never really been mine,” he said, as he sat down in the chair next to Kahori.
Kahori lowered her gaze for a moment, taking in that sentence, which hurt her more than she had expected. She merely nodded, as she unrolled the cloth she had been holding under her arm, revealing a large amount of yen. “This is yours, this is the money you gave my okasan to pay my debt, but I don't want her to keep it because…”
“Because what I paid for won't come with me, right?” he concluded. He looked at the money, not because he really cared about getting it back, he didn't even need it. “How did you get here?”
A question, which was more than a question, was just a formality. A pretext masking a truth that, deep down, he already knew. Something he had always known, which he had perhaps chosen to ignore, convinced that it wasn't a problem. Because Kahori had made her choice. Because she had decided, and he had told himself that was enough. Yet now he realised how naive he had been. He hadn't been that good at interpreting that woman. In fact, perhaps he had never really been able to understand her .
Because she had probably initially accepted her destiny, but she had never turned it into a tangible, concrete desire. And that wouldn't have been a problem, if only her real desire hadn't been a constant thought of hers. If only her desire hadn't decided to wake himself up to go and claim her. In fact, to go and kidnap her.
Kahori looked up, the first rays of sunlight illuminating her eyes with an uncertain glow. For an instant, only silence. A suspended space in which their gazes intertwined, still, as if each was trying to decipher the other's unspoken. And then, like a truth suddenly revealed in its cruel obviousness, something struck them both. He had understood. He understood very well who the person – no, the man – who had led her to that point, was.
A bitter smile grazed his lips, almost imperceptible. Then, in a voice that oscillated between curiosity and a thin veil of disbelief, he spoke.
“It's curious, isn't it?” he said, leaning forward slightly, as if trying to catch every nuance of her expression. “Curious how I offered that same person a better future. A simpler life. Yet…” he paused, almost savouring the weight of his own words, “he refused too.”
Kahori lowered her eyelids, almost with resignation. A sigh escaped her lips, soft but laden with an invisible weight. “I'm sorry.”
Her words were simple, but the way she pronounced them made them full of meanings, of nuances he wasn't sure he wanted to decipher.
He barely arched his eyebrows, his fingers barely moved over the table, a derisory gesture of someone pondering an answer that need not be said.
“What are you sorry for?” he asked, his tone not harsh, nor accusatory. It was just... questioning. “Are you sorry for refusing what I could have given you?” His eyes sought her, as if he wanted to force her to really look at him. “The choice was yours. It has always been yours .”
“I know”. Her voice lowered into a whisper, as if she was afraid to speak those words aloud. “I know it has always been mine. I'm sorry for not being honest. I'm sorry for deciding to change my life, when you had already made that decision.”
A moment of silence. A blink, an imperceptible space in which the world seemed to stop.
“Perhaps,” he replied, barely tilting his head, “you should be sorry for not being true to yourself .”
And deep down he meant it. Wakatoshi had always been lucky enough to know what he wanted from life and had achieved all he could achieve. But part of him was still human. And knowing that she was leaving with him wasn't something that made him rejoice. But as much as he could afford more than he had, he was no despot. He didn't force anyone to be on his side, he had never forced anyone. Everyone was the architect of their own destiny . And Kahori was no exception.
He had extended a hand to both Oikawa and Kahori, but they had made their choices. Right or wrong they were.
In all honesty, he wasn't a resentful person. He didn't look back with hatred or regret. He didn't regret any choice he had made. And, as much as he was a man willing to fight for something, he couldn't force someone to bind themselves to him. Perhaps somewhat selfishly, he was used to the opposite.
“You can't go back, you know that, don't you?” he asked.
As much as a part of him accepted her wrong choices, the other part of him was somewhat amazed, for the courage she had had in leaving everything behind, in risking her life, to choose to pursue her own destiny. Because it also took courage to face that life. To make those choices.
Kahori shook her head. “I don't want to go back, this is my final choice,” she said.
“Why did you risk getting into trouble by bringing all that money with you?” he asked, intrigued by that gesture.
“Because my indecision also involved you. Out of respect for you, I wanted to bring you the money back. I know you don't need it, but I wanted to,” she explained.
Wakatoshi paused to look at the money. “You can take it if you want, you will need it.”
Kahori smiled, but shook her head, before rising from her chair. “I would disrespect you even more if I took it,” she murmured.
Because she had made her choice and Wakatoshi didn't fit into that choice. Kahori didn't know if that was pride. Had she ever had any in her life? She couldn't explain it. But she wouldn't have been fair to herself, nor to Wakatoshi, if she had taken that money. She had decided to walk that road divided from him and she had to do it with her head held high. Because even though she didn't have half a yen on her, she had made a conscious decision to choose that path. And she didn't want to receive a helping hand. She didn't want her choices to interfere with him again.
“Thank you, Ushijima,” she said, saying his name for the first time. “Perhaps, one day in the future, we will meet again”. Saying that, she turned and headed for the door of his flat to leave. It wasn't a farewell, but only a goodbye. Perhaps a promise to see each other again in the future, perhaps to really show him the true form of herself , free of any chains .
Wakatoshi said nothing, watched her leave, then picked up the pink peony she had brought him. He sketched a smile, placed it back on the table, then went to settle himself in the bathroom: a new day of work awaited him.
❀ ❀ ❀
The muffled sound of her footsteps merged with the slight rustle of her kimono, which caressed the ground with every movement, like a breeze through the still semi-deserted streets of Tokyo. The morning air was fresh, carrying with it the humid scent of the night that had just passed and the first warmth of the sun that, with difficulty, was beginning to creep in between the silhouettes of the buildings.
The sky was tinged with soft hues, a delicate mixture of pink, orange and pale blue reflecting on the still misty windows, as the city slowly woke up. The streets weren't entirely empty, but neither were they crowded: a few shopkeepers were bustling around arranging goods outside the small shops.
Just over an hour had passed since she had left Wakatoshi's flat. An hour that had seemed both infinite and fleeting. Time had taken on a strange rhythm, marked only by her footsteps and the irregular beat in her chest. The drive to Kuroo's flat was long, and most of the time she had spent walking, losing herself in the repetitive motion of her feet on the asphalt.
She was out of breath. Perhaps it was because, deep down, a part of her was in a hurry to get away. It was an irrational, almost childish thought, but she couldn't banish it: the idea that by standing still a single moment longer, Wakatoshi could call her back, undo everything, and collapse that fragile balance on which she was moving.
Or maybe it was the other way around.
Perhaps, without realising it, she was quickening her pace to return home. Because, in the end, there was only one place she wanted to be.
He was waiting for her.
When Kahori crossed the flat threshold, Oikawa was there.
Standing right in front of the door, as if he had been standing still the whole time she had been away. His back rested against the wood, his crossed arms clasped to his chest, his fingers pressing against the sleeves of his jacket in an almost unconscious gesture, as if he were clinging to something invisible.
“You succeeded,” he murmured, and there was a raw, intense emotion in his voice, stronger than she had expected. Kahori nodded slowly. Oikawa ran a hand through his hair, his breath shaking. “You're a bloody nightmare, darling. Just let me tell you. You give me more anxiety than a show premiere.”
Kahori wanted to smile, but she couldn't. She couldn't because inside she felt something breaking, something she had been holding back all that time. The weight of her choice, her escape, her decision. Wakatoshi's face was still imprinted in her mind. The guilt, the fear, the desire. Everything collapsed upon her in a single instant. Relief turned into a tightness in her chest, a knot in her throat, and without thinking about it she moved towards him, with the same urgency with which one searches for oxygen after being underwater for too long.
Her hands found him first. Slender fingers clung to the fabric of his jacket, squeezing tightly, and Oikawa took her in without hesitation. His arms encircled her, pulled her close, with that eagerness held back for so long, with the need of someone who has always had time against him, the world against them.
Oikawa's scent filled her senses, that mixture of wood, sandalwood and something fresh that was only his. She felt the warmth of his chest, the quick pulse under the fabric, the tension in his muscles. She clung to all that, to him, with silent desperation.
“You don't have to go back there anymore,” he whispered close to her ear, his voice breaking at the end of the sentence. “You don't have to rush anymore…” He paused, for he too was surrendering to those emotions. Kahori felt it. She felt how his body bent slightly, how his hands tightened on her back. “I want, though, you to say this thing out loud, I want to hear it from you.”
She closed her eyes, sank her face against his shoulder. “Tooru…”
He didn't move immediately. He only felt his uneven breathing against her hair, the beat of her heart. Then, in a low voice, as if afraid of the answer, he whispered: “Tell me it's true this time.”
It was true. It was finally true. There were no more suspended promises, no more stolen encounters in the shadows, no more regrets, no more hands reaching out knowing they would have to leave each other. There was no longer anyone else. Only them. Just the two of them, for the first time, without the weight of the world on their shoulders.
And before even answering, before even finding the words to say it out loud, she kissed him.
It was an impulsive, naked, hungry kiss.
A gentle warmth hung in the air, soft and lingering—like a breath caught between what once was and what might finally be, woven from both loss and quiet hope. Kahori remained silent for a long moment, feeling Oikawa's heartbeat echo against her chest, a rhythm that intertwined perfectly with her own, as if they had always been destined to merge like this.
When she lifted her gaze, she found his gaze already on her. Oikawa's eyes were a storm that had never stopped searching for her, a whirlwind of emotions too strong to express in mere words. His hand slid down Kahori's cheek, his thumb barely grazed her skin, and in that small gesture was everything: the fear of losing her again, the relief of finding her again, the silent promise that he would never let her go.
“Yes, Tooru, this is really happening.”
Oikawa lowered himself to kiss her in a silent but so full of meaning that it left them both breathless. Only the need to finally feel real, to imprint themselves in each other's skin as if to erase everything they had suffered. Oikawa's hands closed around her, holding her with almost desperate force, as if the simple act of letting her go could break him. Kahori's fingers clung to his hair, entwining themselves in those messy brown strands, bringing him even closer, trying to feel him under their fingers, to absorb every fragment.
Everything was reduced to the warmth of their skin, the quickened beats, the broken sighs. Oikawa brushed her kimono with an almost sacred delicacy, as if afraid it might dissolve under his touch. The fabric slipped slowly, revealing more and more of her skin, and he followed that movement with his gaze, as if he wanted to imprint every detail in his memory, as if every moment were too precious to be forgotten.
Kahori felt a chill run down her spine, but it wasn't the cold, it was the knowledge. Of being there, with him, with no more obstacles. Her hands trembled as she slipped off his jacket, sliding down his shoulders, tracing every line, every tension, every fragment of a story written on his skin.
When the fabric of their clothes fell away at their feet, only the sound of their breaths remained, deep and irregular. There were no more doubts, no more boundaries. There was only them, finally free to love each other without reservation, without fear. Finally together.
“Did you really wait that long?” she whispered, her voice still laced with emotion.
Oikawa barely tilted his head, a tired smile he couldn't hide. “I have been waiting even too long, Kahori.”
Kahori inhaled softly, letting that moment settle inside her, heavy and light at the same time. There was a part of her that still couldn't believe that he was real, that this wasn't just another dream she would have to wake up from with a shattered heart. But there he was, in front of her, tangible, with the warmth of his skin and the weight of his existence reminding her that there was nothing more to fear.
“What now?” she asked. A moment of emptiness after realising what was really in front of her. What was she supposed to do now? Now that there was nothing left to hold her down, to bind her to something for greater needs.
Oikawa barely moved, bringing his face closer to hers until his lips brushed her forehead. “Now we're living, darling. For real.”
For the first time, the future wasn't a road marked by obstacles impossible to overcome, but an open, unknown, yet incredibly bright path.
Kahori closed her eyes, letting that moment etch itself into her memory like an indelible seal.
Free at last. Together at last.
Notes:
“Botan” means “Peony”: Showy, lush, elegant that embodies love and affection, the Peony is often used on the occasion of weddings, in fact it is used to celebrate the 12th wedding anniversary. According to the traditional Chinese meaning, in fact, it symbolizes living together in harmony. Giving a bouquet of peonies means thanking a person for the serenity, affection and love that they give us every day, but they can also be given to ask someone for forgiveness.
*I did some research, I hope I'm not wrong. It seems that at that time the main line was the "Tōkaidō Main Line", that is, the only railway line that connected Kyoto and Tokyo. In my head, such a journey would take days, however I read that for a normal passenger (therefore not rich), 12 hours can be enough.
Information that wasn't requested but that I looked up and wanted to share.This is the end of the fanfic. It's a bit of an open ending, but I wrote it in such a way that you could guess how things were going. As I said, since it's a very short fanfic, I had to condense everything. I hope you enjoyed it.
I would like to thank everyone. Those who gave it a chance by reading just a few lines, those who followed it silently, and those who always supported me with valuable comments. Thank you <3.The drawing was done by my dear friend IP <3 I hope you like it as the ending to the fanfic.
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